/Vtrr*-  -<&*- 


fcfc^ 


POEMS 


BY 


MRS.     MARY     NOEL     McDONALD 


"  To  me,  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

WORDSWORTH. 


N  E  W  -  Y  O  R  K 
1844. 


COPY-BIGHT     SECURED 


I'UDNET,  HOOKEB  &  RUSSELL,  Printers. 


A  volume  like  the  present,  whose  circulation  it  was  supposed  would  be  a 
limited  one,  seems  scarcely  to  require  an  introduction :  but,  having  met 
with  a  success  which  has  far  exceeded  the  writer's  expectations,  she  deems 
it  proper  to  state,  that  many  of  the  pieces  have  previously  appeared  in  the 
periodicals  of  the  day,  and  are  now  for  the  first  time  collected.  They  have 
not  been  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  dates,  but  in  accordance  with  their 
subjects  —  those  at  the  close  of  the  volume  being  the  productions  of  earlier 
years. 


M191971 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK. 

The  Emigrant's  Sabbath  Day, 9 

The  Heavens, 17 

The  Loved  and  Lost 21 

The   Marriage  Vow 25 

Nature's  Teachings 28 

The  Dying  Boy, 32 

An  Old  Man's  Reminiscence 37 

The  Spirit's  Whisper, 41 

The  Promised  Land, 45 

The  Child  at  Prayer, 48 

To  a  City  Pigeon, 51 

Thought, 55 

Tasso's  Crown, 58 

The  Return  of  Summer 62 

Keepsakes, 67 

The  Sculptor's  Dream  of  Home, 75 

To  Estelle, 80 

Remembrance, , 85 


V)  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Lament  of  Age  for  Boyhood, 88 

An  Autumn  Thought, 92 

The  Dying  Wife  to  Her  Husband, 95 

The  Land  of  Joy, 100 

The  Summer  Rain, 103 

Elegiac  in  Memory  of  Mrs.  S.  W.  C e, 106 

Night, 109 

The  Diamond  of  the  Desert, 110 

Our  Rest, 113 

Ministering  Spirits. 116 

The  Absent  Communicant, 117 

Stanzas,  suggested  by  the  death  of  a  young  daughter  of  the 

Rev.  Dr.  Schroeder, 121 

Ordination, 124 

Christmas, 126 

Happiness, 129 

A  Lament,  inscribed  to  the  Memory  of  L.  A.  C 130 

Prosperity, 133 

Adversity, 134 

To  the  Portrait  of  a  Child, 135 

Ten  Years  Ago, 137 

In  Memory  of  Henry  S.  Craig, 142 

To  a  Friend  at  Parting, 146 

Winter  Twilight, 148 

Past  and  Present, 149 

To  a  Picture  of  Pierre  De  Coruillan,  Grand  Master  of  the  Knights 

Hospitallers,  in  a  Painter's  Studio, 152 

June, 155 

Sonnet  to  a  Child, 158 

The  Old  Album 159 

March,..  ..164 


CONTENTS.  VII 

PAGE. 

The  Frozen  Stream, 167 

A  Whisper  from  Fairy  Land, 168 

Early  Days, 174 

Thanks  for  a  Boquet, 178 

The  First  Snow, 180 

To , 181 

To  the  Moon, 184 

The   Maiden  to  her  Mirror, 189 

Constancy, 193 

To  Annie,  a  Valentine, 195 

Winter, 197 

The  Love  Letter,  suggested  by  a  Picture, 200 

A  Sigh  for  the  Past, 203 

Serenade,..  ...207 


THE    EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH    DAY. 


THE  morning  breaketh,  and  the  sacred  day, 
JEHOVAH'S  Sabbath,  calls  each  heart  to  pray ; 
A  deeper  hush  the  universe  pervades ; 
A  softer  whisp'ring  fills  the  forest  shades ; 
The  streams  go  murmuring  with  a  gentler  flow, 
And  sweeter  breezes  fan  the  vales  below  ; 
Birds  trill  their  notes,  to  fancy's  ear  less  gay, 
In  blest  accordance  with  the  sacred  day ; 

2 


10  THE    EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH   DAY. 

While  flowers  send  up  their  incense  thro'  the  dews 

To  Him  who  robed  them  in  their  varied  hues, 

Who  filled  each  bell  with  fragrance,  gave  each  bud 

A  richer  dye,  or  some  abundant  good, 

And  strewed  them,  gemlike,  o'er  the  smiling  land, 

Marks  of  his  love,  and  wonders  of  his  hand. 

No\#  on  the  breeze,  from  verdant  valleys  swell 

The  distant  echoes  of  the  Sabbath  bell ; 

To  the  rapt  ear,  as  they  were  voiced  from  heaven, 

The  mellow  tones  harmoniously  are  given ; 

To  humble  fanes  the  villagers  repair, 

Bow  down  the  heart,  and  bend  the  knee  in  prayer, 

And  hear  from  lips  revered  the  message  high 

Of  Him  who  governs  all  immensity. 

But  turn  awhile  to  other  scenes  than  these  — 
Lo !  'neath  the  shelter  of  umbrageous  trees, 
Within  some  forest  of  the  western  wilds, 
In  sweet  seclusion,  a  rude  cabin  smiles. 
A  little  band,  from  regions  far  away, 
Here  find  a  home  —  and  happy  children  play 
On  the  green  sward,  as  careless  and  as  free, 
As  summer  birds  that  build  on  every  tree. 


THE    EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH    DAY.  11 

Now  breaks  the  day  of  rest  —  his  labour  done, 
Gladly  the  exile  greets  the  coming  sun. 
Hush'd  every  sound,  the  heavy  axe  is  still, 
Nor  waken' d  echo  haunts  the  wooded  hill. 
'Tis  silent  all  —  the  blue  o'er-arching  sky 
Scarce  answers  to  the  wild  birds'  melody  ; 
Within  the  forest  glades  the  dappled  deer 
Roams  undisturbed,  nor  dreams  of  danger  near ; 
All  is  so  peaceful,  beautiful,  and  still, 
He  quaffs  the  stream  without  a  thought  of  ill, 
Forgets  the  hunter's  rifle  flashing  nigh, 
Nor  turns,  with  quivering  ear,  to  start  and  fly. 

The  sun  rides  on,  —  beside  their  cabin  door, 
Within  the  tree's  deep  shadow  —  arching  o'er 
Its  branching  arms,  to  shelter  from  the  heat 
The  lowly  roof  and  the  green  mossy  seat — 
The  emigrants  repose  ;  —  to  them  the  day 
Passes  serenely,  ling'ringly  away. 
Mem'ry  retraces  happier  hours  gone  by, 
Dwells  on  past  joys,  with  retrospective  eye, 
Which  thro'  the  lengthen' d  vista  brightly  glow, 
With  rainbow  light,  the  future  cannot  know. 


12  THE  EMIGRANT'S  SABBATH  DAY. 

Vainly,  alas !  they  strain  the  anxious  ear 

The  Sabbath  bell's  sweet  harmony  to  hear  — 

No  sacred  temple,  'neath  their  glorious  sky, 

Points  its  tall  spire,  to  lift  the  thoughts  on  high  ; 

No  voice  proclaims  the  Gospel  message  blest, 

Nor  Christian  worship  marks  the  day  of  rest. 

The  mother,  with  a  babe  upon  her  knee, 

Lulls  its  complaint  with  some  low  melody, 

Musing,  with  eye  half-dimm'd  by  gathering  tears, 

On  the  lov'd  scenes  of  earlier,  happier  years, 

In  fancy  seeks  the  viUage  church  again, 

Joins  in  the  prayer,  and  lifts  the  hallow'd  strain, 

Sings  the  sweet  hymns  she  learned  in  childhood's  day, 

With  friends  beloved,  in  places  far  away. 

The  father,  while  his  children  cluster  round, 
Opens  GOD'S  book,  with  reverence  profound, 
And  reads  some  sacred  story  of  the  past, 
Of  him  upon  the  Nile's  dark  waters  cast, 
A  helpless  babe,  till  she  of  high  degree, 
Proud  Pharaoh's  daughter,  chanc'd  the  ark  to  see  ; 
Of  him,  the  shepherd  boy,  whose  single  blow 
Brought  great  Goliah's  boasted  prowess  low ; 


THE   EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH   DAY.  13 

Of  youthful  Samuel,  early  call'd  to  be 

The  chosen  servant  of  the  Deity ; 

Or  where  angelic  hosts  at  night  proclaim 

The  infant  Saviour  born  in  Bethlehem  ; 

And  as  they  listen  still  with  fixed  eye, 

Traces  the  rugged  path  to  Calvary, 

Binds  on  the  sinless  brow  the  thorny  crown, 

Marks  the  dark  stream  of  blood  come  flowing  down, 

Hears  the  last  cry,  sees  how  the  rocks  are  riven, 

Till  parting  clouds  convey  Him  back  to  heaven, 

Then  shuts  the  holy  volume  to  exclaim, 

"  My  little  flock,  for  you  the  Saviour  came." 

Eve  brings  its  shadows,  —  all  the  western  sky 
Is  hung  with  sunset's  gorgeous  drapery 
Of  gold  and  crimson  —  where  the  wearied  sun 
Spreads  his  rich  couch,  the  day's  long  journey  done. 
The  air  is  freshen'd,  and  the  silver  dew 
Falls  silently  upon  the  violet's  tender  blue, 
Softening  its  beauty  —  and  the  fair  wild  rose 
Droops  its  young  head,  like  childhood  to  repose. 
The  birds  have  sought  their  shelter ;  —  each  soft  nest 
Hides  a  wing'd  rover,  as  on  downy  breast, 


14  THE   EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH   DAY. 

And  head  close  crouched  beneath  its  feathery  dress, 
The  wind-rock' d  cradle  soothes  its  weariness. 
The  twilight  deepens  —  in  the  welkin  blue, 
A  few  pale  stars  are  glimmering  faintly  through  — 
Night's  sentinels.     But  hark  !   what  voices  raise, 
Within  the  forest  depths,  the  hymn  of  praise  ? 
'Tis  childhood's  melody,  in  sweet  accord 
Breaks  forth  the  simple  lay  of  hallo w'd  word, 
And  when  the  trembling  notes  almost  expire, 
A  mother's  tongue  assists  the  timorous  choir. 

They  cease  —  and  borne  upon  the  summer  air, 

Come  the  firm  tones  of  pure  and  earnest  prayer. 

In  solitary  wilds  that  household  band 

Kneel  to  the  GOD  of  nations  —  he  whose  hand 

Hath  guided  safely  thro'  the  parted  day 

Their  pilgrim  footsteps,  in  the  narrow  way. 

They  pray  for  home  and  friends,  the  dear  ones  bending, 

Perchance  for  them  when  twilight  shades  are  blending, 

Before  the  mercy  seat  —  but  oh  !  the  prayer 

More  fervently  ascends,  when  pleading  there 

For  the  pure  light  of  heavenly  truth,  to  bless 

Their  lonely  home  within  the  wilderness. 


THE    EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH    DAY.  1.5 

They  ask,  that  yet,  amid  the  forests  dim, 

May  echo  holy  psalm,  and  pealing  hymn; 

That  once  again,  ere  life's  short  day  is  gone, 

Their  ears  may  list  the  Gospel's  cheering  tone, 

Proclaim'd  by  one  commission'd  from  on  high, 

To  speak  the  message  of  the  Deity. 

And  when  the  day  is  past,  and  night's  dark  pall 

Is  spread  o'er  earth,  —  while  stars  a  festival 

Are  keeping  in  their  high  and  holy  home, 

And  soft  on  human  lids  sweet  slumbers  come, 

The  exiles  rest,  to  greet  in  pleasant  dreams 

Their  native  vales,  green  woods,  and  shining  streams, 

Forgetful  of  the  weary  leagues  that  spread 

Between  them  and  the  land  they  long  to  tread. 

Go  forth,  ye  heralds  —  may  the  Gospel's  voice 
Soon  bid  the  lonely  wilderness  rejoice. 
Tho'  friends  and  home  the  emigrant  has  left, 
Still  let  him  feel  as  not  of  all  bereft ; 
Bear  to  his  ear,  with  all  their  thrilling  power, 
The  strains  he  learned  to  love  in  childhood's  hour, 
The  prayers  which  taught  his  youthful  heart  to  rise 
On  faith's  unfailing  pinion  to  the  skies  ; 


16  THE    EMIGRANT'S    SABBATH    DAY. 

Spread  the  lov'd  feast,  and  to  the  sacred  board 
Invite  each  trembling  servant  of  the  LORD  ; 
Seal  with  baptismal  water  infant  brows  ; 
Join  plighted  hands,  and  sanction  nuptial  vows  ; 
Beside  the  bed  of  death  speak  words  of  peace, 
And  soothe  the  spirit  waiting  its  release  ; 
And  when  the  last  dark  conflict  shall  be  o'er, 
When  sin  and  sorrow  pain  the  soul  no  more, 
Then  lay  the  form  in  dust  with  solemn  prayer, 
And  consecrate  the  ashes  slumb'ring  there. 


17 


THE    HEAVENS. 


'The  Heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the 
firmament  showeth  his  handy-work." 


Is  it  not  glorious  —  the  arch  of  blue 
Spread  out  above  us  by  our  Maker's  hand  ? 
The  mighty  dome  a  heaven-built  temple  knew, 
When  springing  forth  at  God's  all- wise  command  ; 
How  it  doth  stretch  away  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Unpillared  —  since  the  hour  His  mandate  clear 
Fixed  its  unmeasured  limit,  thus  to  stand 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  burst  upon  the  ear, 
And  nations  wake  from  death,  their  final  doom  to  hear ! 

3 


18  THEHEAVENS. 

'Tis  morn,  the  gates  of  light  are  opened  wide  — 
See  from  the  orient  comes  the  god  of  day ! 
He  mounts  his  dazzling  chariot  to  ride, 
Like  a  proud  monarch,  his  appointed  way : 
Onward  he  journeys,  till  his  noontide  ray 
Pierces  each  leafy  screen,  each  wooded  dell, 
Then  westward  rolling,  pass  the  heats  away ; 
And  when  chimes  clearly  out  the  vesper  bell, 
'Mid  clouds  of  gorgeous  hue,  he  bids  the  world  farewell. 

Night  curtains  earth  again,  each  weary  child 
Of  frail  mortality  it  calls  to  rest ; 
And  now  the  moon's  pale  crescent  undefiled, 
Hangs  like  a  silver  boat  in  the  cool  west ; 
Or,  older  waxing,  pours  her  radiance  blest, 
Where  city  streets  lie  silent  'neath  her  beams, 
Robing  all  nature  in  her  spotless  vest, 
And  mirrored  in  a  thousand  mighty  streams, 
And  lighting  ocean's  foam,  and  on  the  white  sail  gleams. 

Nor  cometh  she  alone  —  the  stars  are  there, 
Those  flaming  jewels  set  by  God  on  high ; 


THEHEAVENS.  19 

Transient  but  beautiful,  the  meteor's  glare 
Lights  for  a  moment  the  uplifted  eye  ; 
Orion  and  the  Pleiades  are  nigh, 
The  Polar  Star  unwearied,  and  with  them 
The  day's  bright  herald,  as  the  night  lays  by 
The  regal  splendors  of  her  diadem, 
And  lost  in  greater  glory,  fades  each  radiant  gem. 

But  more,  look  up  once  more,  and  trembling  see 
The  clouds  unfurl  their  banners  in  the  sky : 
Loud  rolls  the  thunder's  dread  artillery, 
And  swift  and  fierce  the  winged  lightnings  fly ; 
Veil,  mortal,  veil  thy  terror-stricken  eye, 
Jehovah  speaks  to  listening  man  below ; 
And  now  the  blast  is  spent,  the  storm  gone  by, 
The  sun  shines  forth  triumphantly,  and  lo  ! 
The  darkest  cloud  is  spanned  by  the  bright  promise- 
bow  ! 

The  heavens  declare  thy  glory  —  in  his  might 
The  sun  tells  out  thy  praise  from  day  to  day  — 
The  stars,  the  myriad  stars,  at  noon  of  night, 
Sing  as  they  keep  their  fixed,  unerring  way ; 


20  THEHEAVENS. 

Silent  they  seem  to  man  —  but  oh  !   each  ray 
Is  vocal  with  creation's  choral  hymn  — 
Far  rolling  orbs  take  up  the  rapturous  lay, 
And  distant  planets,  vast,  obscure  and  dim, 
Swell  the  loud  anthem,  clear  as  white-robed  seraphim, 

The  heavens  declare  thy  glory  —  who  can  gaze, 
Almighty  Father  !   on  that  azure  sea, 
With  all  its  countless  barks  of  light,  yet  raise 
Nor  voice  nor  grateful  tribute  unto  thee  ? 
Thine  are  the  dazzling  worlds  of  light  we  see, 
And  each  their  Maker's  majesty  proclaim, 
Burn  in  their  orbits  by  thy  sure  decree, 
And  write  thy  power  in  characters  of  flame, 
Meet  page,  Eternal  God  !   to  bear  thy  glorious  name. 


THE    LOVED    AND    LOST. 


"The  shadows  of  death  o'er  my  path  have  been  sweeping, 

There  are  those  who  have  loved  me,  debarred  from  the  day ; 
The  green  turf  is  bright  where  in  peace  they  are  sleeping, 

And  on  wings  of  remembrance  my  soul  is  away. 
'Tis  shut  to  the  glow  of  this  present  existence, 

It  hears  from  the  past  a  funereal  strain, 
And  eagerly  turns  to  the  high-seeming  distance, 
Where  the  last  blooms  of  earth  will  be  garnered  again." 

WILLIS  G.  CLARK, 


Come  to  my  heart  again,  ye  long  departed, 

Come,  fill  the  vacant  places  at  our  hearth; 
Vainly  for  you  the  bitter  tears  have  started, 

Since  ye  forsook  for  heaven  the  haunts  of  earth. 
Vainly,  ye  lost,  we  yearn  for  your  caressing, 

And  ask  the  tender  tones  which  once  we  heard ; 
On  the  still  air  there  comes  no  whispered  blessing, 

Mute  is  each  lip,  and  lost  each  loving  word. 


22  THE      LOVED      AND      LOST. 

Come  once  again,  there  is  a  shadow  o'er  us, 

Earth  seems  a  weary  land  since  ye  are  gone, 
Dim  is  the  lengthened  pathway  spread  before  us, 

And  distant  far  the  goal  which  ye  have  won : 
Vainly  the  spring-time,  in  its  bloom  returning, 

Wakes  the  young  buds,  and  clothes  the  earth  anew ; 
Unto  our  hearts,  with  quenchless  love  still  burning, 

What,  what  avails  its  beauty,  'reft  of  you ! 


Thou,  the  dear  friend  of  girlhood,  memory  traces 

Full  many  an  hour  of  gladness  linked  with  thee, 
And  in  thy  children's  fair  and  gentle  faces, 

Some  loved  resemblance  of  thyself  may  see. 
Thou,  the  kind  guardian  of  my  childhood's  hours, 

My  guide  in  youth,  thine  absence  I  deplore ; 
See  the  dark  cloud  that  on  her  pathway  lowers, 

Come  to  thy  child,  and  be  her  shield  once  more. 


And  thou,  the  best  and  dearest,  words  can  never 
Speak  the  keen  anguish  of  my  stricken  breast ; 

'Twas  but  our  summer  day  —  how  soon  to  sever 
The  sacred  bond  which  made  our  life  so  blest. 


THE      LOVED      AND     LOST.  23 

The  past,  the  past,  'tis  robed  in  hues  of  brightness, 
Its  records  tell  of  years  how  full  of  bliss, 

When  my  young  spirit  in  its  joy  and  lightness, 
Dreamed  not  of  such  a  fearful  woe  as  this. 


Dost  thou  still  love  me  in  that  far-off  heaven  V 

Or  art  thou  near  me  on  thy  spirit  wings  ? 
Beloved,  beloved,  I  cannot  deem  it  riven, 

That  holy  tie  to  which  my  heart  yet  clings : 
Hast  thou  not  seen  the  tears,  which,  like  a  river, 

Swelled  to  the  flood-gates  of  my  breaking  heart  ? 
O  say  not  thou  art  lost  to  me  for  ever  — 

We  have  been  linked  too  fondly,  thus  to  part. 


Come,  come  to  bless  me,  with  thine  eyes  kind  beaming, 

Let  thy  loved  voice  upon  my  fond  ears  thrill ; 
Come,  with  the  light  of  heaven  around  thee  streaming, 

Come  to  the  heart  that  weeps  thee,  loves  thee  still. 
Ay  !    in  its  inmost  core  with  sorrow  breaking, 

Still  does  that  love  with  quenchless  ardor  burn ; 
While  a  sad  voice  within  its  depths  awaking, 

Hath  but  one  echo,  "  O  return,  return." 


24  THELOVEDANDLOST. 

Hark !    on  mine  ear  seraphic  notes  are  ringing ! 

Your  voices,  loved  ones,  mingle  in  the  lay ; 
Ye  join  the  hymns  which  angel  choirs  are  singing, 

But,  'mid  your  songs,  methinks  I  hear  you  say, 
"There  is  no  darkness  here,  the  clouds  are  riven, 

The  veil  is  lifted  from  our  earthly  eyes ; 
Would' st  thou  recall  us  from  the  light  of  heaven, 

And  all  the  ceaseless  joys  of  Paradise  ?" 


No  !  no !  let  mortal  vision  greet  ye  never  ; 

Silence  thy  yearning,  O  repining  heart ! 
Bliss,  bliss  unending,  ye  have  gained  for  ever, 

No  more  in  earthly  sorrow  to  have  part ; 
Joy  for  the  free  and  blessed !  all  unheeding 

The  world,  its  fleeting  pleasures  or  its  care ; 
Onward  my  soul,  be  then  thine  eager  speeding, 

To  those  pure  realms,  and  join  thy  lost  ones  there. 


25 


THE    MARRIAGE    VOW. 


"  For  better,  for  worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and  to 
cherish,  till  death  us  do  part,  according  to  God's  holy  ordinance ;  and  thereto  I  plight  thee 

my  Troth." 

MARRIAGE  SERVICE  OF  THE  EPISCOPAL  CHURCH. 


Speak  it  not  lightly  —  'tis  a  holy  thing, 

A  bond  enduring  through  long  distant  years, 

When  joy  o'er  thine  abode  is  hovering, 

Or  when  thine  eye  is  wet  with  bitterest  tears, 

Recorded  by  an  angel's  pen  on  high, 

And  must  be  questioned  in  Eternity. 

4 


26  THE      MARRIAGE      VOW. 

I 

Speak  it  not  lightly  —  though  the  young  and  gay 
Are  thronging  round  thee  now  with  tones  of  mirth, 

Let  not  the  holy  promise  of  to-day 

Fade  like  the  clouds  that  with  the  morn  have  birth, 

But  ever  bright  and  sacred  may  it  be, 

Stored  in  the  treasure-cell  of  memory. 


Life  may  not  prove  all  sunshine  —  there  will  come 
Dark  hours  for  all :    O  will  ye,  when  the  night 

Of  sorrow  gathers  thickly  round  your  home, 
Love  as  ye  did,  in  time  when  calm  and  bright 

Seemed  the  sure  path  ye  trod,  untouched  by  care, 

And  deemed  the  future,  like  the  present,  fair  ? 


Eyes  that  now  beam  with  health  may  yet  grow  dim, 
And  cheeks  of  rose  forget  their  early  glow ; 

Languor  and  pain  assail  each  active  limb, 

And  lay  perchance  some  worshipped  beauty  low; 

Then  will  ye  gaze  upon  the  altered  brow, 

And  love  as  fondly,  faithfully,  as  now  ? 


THE       MARRIAGE       VOW.  27 

Should  fortune  frown  on  your  defenceless  head, 

Should  storms  o'ertake  your  barque  on  life's  dark  sea; 

Fierce  tempests  rend  the  sail  so  gayly  spread, 
When  Hope  her  syren  strain  sang  joyously  — 

Will  ye  look  up,  though  clouds  your  sky  o'ercast, 

And  say,  "  together  we  will  bide  the  blast  ?  " 


Age  with  its  silvery  locks  comes  stealing  on, 

And  brings  the  tottering  step,  the  furrowed  cheek, 

The  eye  from  whence  each  lustrous  gleam  hath  gone, 
And  the  pale  lip,  with  accents  low  and  weak  — 

Will  ye  then  think  upon  your  life's  gay  prime, 

And  smiling,  bid  Love  triumph  over  Time  ? 


Speak  it  not  lightly  —  O  beware,  beware  ! 

'Tis  no  vain  promise,  no  unmeaning  word  — 
Lo,  men  and  angels  list  the  faith  ye  swear, 

And  by  the  High  and  Holy  One  'tis  heard : 
O  then  kneel  humbly  at  his  altar  now, 
And  pray  for  grace  to  keep  your  marriage  vow. 


28 


NATURE'S    TEACHINGS. 


I. 
Go  forth  with  Nature  —  she  hath  many  voices, 

Speaking  deep  lessons  to  the  human  heart, 
Where  the  blue  streamlet  in  its  course  rejoices, 

And  where  amid  the  forest  wild  birds  dart, 

Bearing  in  some  sweet  chorus  each  a  part ; 
Wind,  wave  and  blossom,  tree  and  fragrant  sod, 

The  mossy  hillock  in  its  robe  of  green, 
The  tiny  bells  that  in  the  breezes  nod, 

Lifting  their  dewy  heads,  broad  leaves  between 


NATURE'S     TEACHINGS.  21 

Each  has  a  tone,  a  lesson  ;  man  hath  need 
Oft  to  go  forth  and  ponder  all  their  lore : 

In  Nature's  open  volume  he  may  read 

Truths  of  the  mightiest  import,  and  in  awe 

Bow  down  an  humble  heart,  an  unseen  power  adore, 


n. 

Go  to  the  ocean,  when  its  giant  waves 

Are  lashed  to  fury  in  the  tempest's  hour, 
And  while  each  tortured  billow  madly  raves, 

Learn  thou  the  LORD  JEHOVAH'S  might  and  power ; 

Then  turn  thee  to  the  little  modest  flower, 
That  blooms  unnoticed  'mid  the  gay  and  fair, 

Or  gives  its  bright  cheek  to  the  summer  shower, 
And  read  His  watchful  love  and  goodness  there. 
The  lilies  of  the  field  are  still  His  care, 

And  He  who  fixed  the  rolling  worlds  on  high, 
And  spread  above  the  broad  blue  arch  of  heaven, 
And  clothes  it  with  the  gorgeous  hues  of  even, 

Looks  on  the  meanest  worm  with  guardian  eye, 

And  marks  the  sparrow's  fall,  and  heeds  the  raven's 
cry. 


30 


III. 

Go  trace  the  waters  of  the  sparkling  rill, 

From  out  their  rocky  birthplace  wildly  gushing, 
Trickling  in  infant  beauty  from  the  hill, 

Or  in  the  sun  with  diamond  lustre  flushing : 
Now  gliding  onward  for  awhile  serene, 
Now,  twisted  roots  and  vexing  rocks  between, 
Then  dashing  on,  with  fiercer,  wilder  force, 
And  swifter  race  along  their  destined  course, 

To  mingle  with  the  ocean  waves  at  last ; 
And  such  is  Life  —  its  Childhood's  fount  so  fair, 

Its  Youth's  gay  morn  so  joyous  and  so  free, 
Its  Manhood's  hour  of  fearful  strife  and  care  — 
Its  Age  of  rapid  flight  so  quickly  past  — 
'Till  lost  amid  thy  depths,  Eternity. 


IV. 

Go  in  the  spring-time  —  when  the  smiling  earth 
Puts  on  her  robes  of  beauty  for  thine  eye, 

And  lo,  she  speaks  of  that  celestial  birth 

The  Spirit  knows  in  brighter  worlds  on  high : 


NATURE'S     TEACHINGS.  31 

And  when  the  Autumn  winds  all  mournful  sigh 
Through  leafless  branches,  then  go  forth  and  store 
Thy  mind  with  thoughts  of  death,  and  read  once  more 

The  lesson  of  thine  own  mortality. 
Ay,  wander  forth  with  Nature,  every  glade, 
Each  leafy  aisle  amid  the  forest's  shade  — 
The  lightning's  flash  —  the  thunder's  awful  roll — 

The  rainbow's  arch  —  the  dazzling  orb  of  day  — 

The  silent  moon  upon  her  pathless  way  — 
All  have  mysterious  tones  to  pierce  the  human  soul. 


32 


THE    DYING    BOY. 


'Twas  early  summer,  pleasant  June  had  come, 

Flinging  her  coronals  on  every  bough, 

And  from  the  soft  southwest,  with  perfume  rife, 

The  light-winged  zephyrs  wooed  the  coy  young  flowers. 

The  brooks  like  playful  children  babbled  on, 

Loosed  from  their  icy  bondage,  and  the  birds, 

Nature's  unwearied  choir,  tuned  their  clear  notes, 

And  in  the  wild-wood  shades  held  revelry. 

Earth  wore  her  robes  of  light  and  loveliness ; 

There  were  no  clouds  athwart  the  deep  blue  heaven, 


THEDYINQBOY.  33 

Naught  that  might  tell  of  darkness  or  decay : 
But  in  a  cottage  home,  where  the  green  vines 
Clambered  about  the  casement,  and  the  sun 
Peeped  stealthily  amid  the  clustering  boughs, 
And  the  red  rose  gave  her  sweet  odors  forth  — 
There  Sorrow  sat,  and  claimed  her  heritage 
In  human  hearts. 

Upon  his  lowly  couch 
Lay  like  a  broken  lily,  a  fair  child 
Just  numbering  then  his  tenth  bright  summer. 
His  clasped  hands  were  white  as  braided  snow-wreaths , 
And  his  silken  hair,  once  waving  lightly 
In  the  summer's  breath,  now  wet  with  death  dews, 
Fell  all  heavily  on  his  pure  forehead. 
There  was  no  rose-teint  on  his  wasted  cheek, 
It  seemed  like  Parian  marble  —  and  his  eye, 
The  lid  half  drawn,  shone  faintly,  as  a  star 
'Mid  parting  clouds. 

Beside  him  leaned,  heart-sick 

With  hope  deferred,  and  worn  with  ceaseless  vigils, 
She  who  had  borne  him.     There  was  much  that  told 

5 


34  THEDYINGBOY. 

Of  patient  suffering  in  her  pallid  face, 

For  she  had  struggled  earnestly,  till  faith 

Could  spread  its  eagle  pinions  and  soar  up, 

From  the  cold  bed  where  she  must  lay  her  boy, 

To  his  bright  spirit-home.     Oh,  only  they 

Who  with  a  mother's  speechless  agony, 

Have  watched  the  life-blood  ebb,  and  the  young  cheek 

Grow  pale  ;  counted  each  feeble  pulse,  and  seen 

The  full  round  limbs  shrink  in  undue  proportion  — 

Only  they,  can  tell  a  mother's  sorrow, 

And  may  own,  how  hard  to  bow  submissively, 

And  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Hush  !  he  is  waking, 

The  dim  eyes  re-open,  and  the  white  lips, 
Long  sealed  as  though  in  death,  find  utterance. 
She  had  thought  he  slept,  but  when  he  turned 
Those  soft  dark  orbs  to  hers,  she  saw  that  tears 
Were  on  their  silken  fringe,  and  o'er  his  face 
Passed  a  deep  shade  of  gloom.     "  Mother,"  he  said, 
And  the  faint  tones  were  tremulous  with  grief, 
"  Mother,  I  know  how  soon  the  time  will  come 
When  I  must  die  ;  and  as  I  lay  but  now, 


THEDYINGBOY.  35 

And  thought  of  the  sweet  spring  and  summer  days 
Which,  each  revolving  year,  make  the  green  earth 
So  beautiful,  and  how  they  all  would  pass 
Over  my  grave,  and  I  should  see  them  not  — 
I  thought  how  sad  it  were  to  be  forgotten. 
Will  it  be  so,  dear  mother  ?     I  would  care 
But  little  if  all  others  should  forget ; 
But  I  was  thinking,  that  you  too,  perhaps, 
When  you  grew  older,  and  your  tears  were  dried, 
And  I  had  slumbered  long,  you  might  forget 
The  timid  boy  who  wandered  by  your  side 
In  the  sweet  garden  paths  at  close  of  day,  . 
Or  gathered  wild  flowers  in  the  shady  nooks 
Of  the  old  pasture  meadow ;  he  who  knelt 
Each  morn  and  eve,  to  lisp  his  childish  prayers 
Low  at  your  knee,  and  grasped  your  gentle  hand, 
When  the  clear  Sabbath  bells  rang  joyously, 
To  seek  our  heavenly  Father's  hallowed  house  ; 
You  might  forget  the  hour  when  he  was  wont 
To  come  with  bounding  step  and  gleesome  call, 
From  his  wood  rambles  to  your  open  arms. 
Will  it  be  so,  dear  mother  ?     Must  I  die, 
And  you  forget  your  child  ?" 


30  THEDYINGBOY. 

She  pressed  her  lips 

On  his  cold  forehead,  and  her  burning  tears 
Fell  fast  with  his  :  but  when  the  first  keen  pang 
Was  past,  she  nerved  herself  to  comfort  him, 
And  told  him,  in  her  heart  were  images, 
And  gentle  names  of  loved  and  lost,  which  ne'er 
Could  fade  from  her  remembrance,  and  that  he 
Would  ever  live  among  the  brightest  there, 
'Till  death  should  bear  her  to  his  arms  in  heaven. 


37 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    REMINISCENCE. 


The  writer's  grandfather,  an  old  Revolutionary  officer,  now  on  the  verge  of  ninety-two, 
paid  a  visit  several  years  since  to  a  house  in  the  city  of  Albany,  in  which,  more  than  half 
a  century  before,  he  had  been  married.  The  touching  narration  of  his  feelings,  as  he  stood 
in  that  time-worn  apartment,  suggested  the  following  lines. 


An  old  man  stood  in  a  serious  mood,  within  an  ancient 

room, 
And  o'er  his  features  gathered  fast,  a  shade  of  deepest 

gloom, 
While  to  his  eye,  bedimmed  with  age,  came  up  the 

gushing  tears, 
As  memory  from  her  hidden  caves,  recalled  long  buried 

years. 


38  AN    OLD    MAN'S    REMINISCENCE. 

What  were  his  thoughts  that  hour,  which  thus  awakened 

many  a  sigh ; 
And  brought  the  shadow  o'er  his  brow,  the  moisture 

to  his  eye  ? 
What,  in  that  old  familiar  place,  had  power  to  touch 

his  heart  ? 
To  call  that  cloud  of  sorrow  up,  and  bid  that  tear-drop 

start? 

The  past !  —  the  past !  — how  rolled  the  tide  of  Time's 
* 

swift  river  back, 

While  the  bright  rays  of  Youth  and  Love  shed  lustre 

on  its  track : 
Full  fifty  summer  suns  had  shone,  since  on  that  silent 

spot, 
Had  passed  a  scene,  while  life  was  left,  could  never  be 

forgot. 

There  had  the  holiest  tie  been  formed,  the  marriage 

vow  been  given, 
And  she  who  spoke  it  then  with  him,  was  now  a  saint 

in  heaven : 
But  long,  long  intervening  years,  seemed  like  an  idle 

dream, 
As  o'er  his  soul  with  glowing  light,  came  that  bright 

vision-gleam. 


AN     OLD     MAN'S     REMINISCENCE.  39 

He  stood  before  the  holy  man,  with  her,  his  youthful 

bride, 
And  spoke  again  the  plighting  word,  that  bound  him  to 

her  side ; 
Again  he  clasped  the   small  fair  hand  that  hour  had 

made  his  own,  — 
The  vision  faded  —  and  he  stood  all  desolate  —  alone. 

His  youthful  brow  is  silvered  o'er  with  fourscore  winter 

snows ; 
The  faltering  step,  the  furrowed  cheek,   tell  of  life's 

certain  close  : 
The  plighted  bride,  the  faithful  wife,  beloved  so  long, 

so  true, 
Now  sleeps  beneath  the  burial  sod,  where  spring  the 

wild  flowers  blue. 

There  is  no  music  in  his  home  —  no  light  around  his 

hearth, 
The  childish  forms  that  frolicked  there,  have  passed 

with  all  their  mirth ; 
Years  have  rolled  by,  the  changing  years,  and  now  he 

stands  alone, 
Musing  upon  the  past  —  the  past  —  hopes  faded,  loved 

ones  gone. 


40  AN   OLD   MAN'S    REMINISCENCE. 

Yet,  aged  pilgrim,  dry  the  tear,   suppress  the  rising 

sigh, 

Look  upward,  onward,  to  the  scenes  of  immortality ; 
Fleet  be  the  moments,  if  they  bear  in  their  resistless 

flight, 
The  spirit  on  to  that  pure  world  of  blessedness  and 

light. 

There  are  thy  loved  ones  gathered  safe,  in  beauty  side 

by  side, 
And  there  the  partner  of  thy  life,  thy  manhood's  gentle 

bride  ; 
Fair  as  she  stood  in  that  bright  hour,  this  day  recalled 

to  mind, 

A  little  season  gone  before,  a  better  rest  to  find ; 
And  thou,  when  death  shall  close  thine  eye,  in  heaven 

that  rest  will  share, 
And  find  the  tie  once  broken  here,  indissoluble  there. 


41 


THE    SPIRIT'S    WHISPER. 


She  is  an  angel  now  ! 

Weep  not,  dear  friend,  that  ere  the  rust  of  time 
Had  gathered  o'er  thy  bright  and  priceless  gem, 
A  hand  Divine  hath  riven  the  casket  fair, 
And  placed  thy  radiant  jewel  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  for  ever  in  the  Saviour's  crown. 
Do  thy  thoughts  cling  to  earth  ?    O,  bid  them  rise 
On  faith's  strong  wing,  and  in  the  spirit-land 
Behold  thy  lost  one.     See  !  her  brow  is  lit 
With  loveliness  immortal.     There,  no  tears 

6 


42  THE    SPIRIT'S    WHISPER. 

Shall  dim  her  beauty,  and  no  weary  sighs 
Fill  her  young  bosom  with  their  heaviness  ; 
For  in  that  world  of  bliss,  pain  cannot  enter  — 
Sorrow  is  unknown  —  and  O,  blest  bliss  of  all ! 
They  never  part  in  heaven. 

Dost  thou  catch 

The  gentle  whisper  of  that  angel  voice  ? 
Methinks  the  air  is  stirred  with  viewless  plumes 
That  quiver  round  us  ;  while  unto  mine  ear 
There  comes  a  strain,  like  music  heard  in  dreams, 
Or,  soft  and  low,  as  an  jEolian  lyre, 
And  this  the  burden  of  its  melody  : 

Sweet  mother,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  joy  of  sainted  spirits  now  is  mine  ; 
I  roam  the  fields  of  light,  with  those  who  keep 
Bright  watch,  where  heaven's  own  golden  portals  shine, 

I  am  the  babe  no  more, 
Who  gave  its  feeble  wailing  to  thine  ear ; 
Free  from  the  cumbering  clay,  I  mount,  I  soar, 
Upward  and  onward,  through  a  boundless  sphere ! 


THE    SPIRIT'S    WHISPER.  43 

O,  could 'st  thou  know  how  fair, 
How  full  of  blessedness  this  better  land, 
Thou  would' st  rejoice,  thy  child  in  safety  there, 
Had  place  for  ever  'mid  the  angel  band. 

»  I  may  not  tell  thee  all 

Its  light  and  loveliness  ;  its  hymns  of  joy 

Upon  a  mortal  ear  may  never  fall, 

And  tongues  immortal  can  alone  employ : 

But  O,  'tis  sweet  to  be 
A  sinless  dweller  'mid  its  radiant  bowers  ; 
To  join  its  seraph-songs  of  harmony  — 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  its  fadeless  flowers  — 

To  dwell  no  more  with  pain  — 
To  shed  no  tears  —  to  feel  no  panting  breath  — 
Sweet  mother,  do  not  grieve  for  me  again, 
I  am  so  blest ;  I  bless  the  hand  of  death. 

Turn  with  unwavering  trust 
From  the  green  earth-bed,  where  my  body  lies  ; 
Thou  did'st  but  lay  its  covering  in  the  dust, 
Thy  child  yet  lives,  will  live,  beyond  the  skies. 


44  THE     SPIRIT'S     WHISPER. 

There  we  shall  meet  again  : 
O  yes  !  believe  it,  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 
I'll  welcome  thee  with  heaven's  angelic  train, 
And  lead  thee  to  the  Saviour  we  adore. 


45 


THE    PROMISED    LAND. 

"They  thought  scorn  of  that  pleasant  land,  and  gave  no  credence  unto  his  word. 

Scorn  of  that  pleasant  land  ! 
That  place  of  crystal  founts,  and  palmy  shade  : 
Where  the  vine  tendrils  in  the  soft  air  played, 

By  wandering  zephyrs  fanned  — 
Where  cooling  waters,  'mid  the  verdant  hills, 

Gushed  in  a  thousand  rills. 

That  land  of  sunny  skies  — 
Of  flowers  and  fruits  luxuriant ;  where  the  bee 
On  tireless  wing  to  every  balmy  tree 

Seeking  its  nectar,  hies. 
That  land  of  corn  and  wine,  that  place  of  rest 

The  dews  of  heaven  had  blessed ! 


46  THE       PROMISED       LAND. 

Turned  they  once  more  to  thee, 
Oppressing  Egypt  ?  asked  they  yet  again 
The  tyrant's  heavy  yoke,  the  galling  chain 

Of  bitter  slavery  ? 
The  life  of  bondsmen,  and  their  nameless  graves, 

Meet  sepulture  for  slaves  ! 

Had  they  forgotten  now 
The  heavenly  manna  from  the  hand  of  God  ? 
The  Rock,  from  whence  the  Prophet's  smiting  rod 

Bade  the  clear  waters  flow  ? 
The  cloud-wrapt  height  of  Sinai,  when  His  word 

That  trembling  Prophet  heard  ? 

And  did  they  doubt  the  hand 
That  led  them  safely  through  the  parted  sea  ? 
And  could  they  ask  a  surer  guide  than  He 

Unto  the  Promised  Land  ? 
He,  who  the  fiery  pillar  reared  to  bless 

In  the  dark  wilderness  ? 

Read  thou  thyself,  O  man ! 
In  their  eventful  story  —  far  away 
Lies  the  fair  region  of  eternal  day ; 


THE      PROMISED      LAND.  47 

Yet  through  thy  little  span, 

Thou  would'st  resign  a  world  with  glory  rife, 

For  the  short  dream  of  life. 

Too  often  thou  dost  turn, 

Like  them  of  old,  from  Canaan's  heavenly  shore, 
And  seek  the  grovelling  joy  s  of  earth  once  more, 

And  where  her  altars  burn 
Bow  down  in  homage,  yielding  unto  dust 

Thy  heart's  unholy  trust. 

Thou,  too,  dost  turn  away 
From  the  bright  goal  before  thee,  and  pursue 
Some  fleeting  shadow,  that  must  cheat  thy  view  ; 

Some  idol,  which  decay 
Must  stamp  with  ruin,  till  the  light 

Of  heaven  eludes  thy  sight. 


48 


i 
THE    CHILD    AT    PRAYER, 


'Twas  summer  eve,  the  rosy  light 

Had  faded  from  the  sky, 
And  stars  came  twinkling  pure  and  bright, 

Through  the  blue  arch  on  high  : 
The  western  breezes  softly  stole 

To  kiss  the  sleeping  flower, 
And  kindly,  o'er  the  wearied  earth, 

Came  evening's  peaceful  hour. 


THE      CHILD      AT      PRAYER.  49 

There  sat,  within  a  quiet  room, 

A  mother,  young  and  fair, 
And  close  beside  her  knee,  there  knelt 

A  cherub  boy  in  prayer : 
For  every  living  thing  he  loves, 

That  prayer  ascends  to  heaven, 
While  for  himself,  he  humbly  asks 

Each  sin  may  be  forgiven. 

And  oft,  in  after  years,  when  care 

Shall  bow  his  spirit  down, 
And  the  world,  the  cold,  unfeeling  world, 

Shall  meet  him  with  a  frown  ; 
Or  when,  allured  from  virtue's  path, 

He  treads  a  dangerous  way, 
O,  he  will  turn  to  this  blest  hour, 

When  first  he  knelt  to  pray. 

And  the  kind  hand,  which  then  was  laid 

Upon  his  silken  hair, 
And  the  soft  voice,  which  taught  him  first 

His  simple  words  of  prayer  — 

7 


50  THE      CHILD      AT      PRAYER, 

Will  come  again,  with  thrilling  power, 

To  still  his  pulses  wild, 
And  lure  him  back  in  that  dark  hour, 

Once  more  in  heart,  a  child. 

'Tis  o'er  —  the  last  "good  night,"  is  said- 

The  last  fond  kiss  is  given  — 
But  rises  not  that  childish  prayer 

To  Him  who  dwells  in  heaven  ? 
Will  not  His  ear  give  heed  as  soon 

Unto  an  infant's  cry, 
As  when  a  seraph  bows  the  knee 

Before  His  throne  on  high  ? 

Yes,  He  who  marks  the  sparrow's  fall  — 

Who  feeds  the  raven's  young  — 
Will  listen  to  the  simple  words 

Lisped  by  an  infant  tongue ; 
And  thou,  blest  mother,  teach  thy  child 

Early  to  kneel  and  pray, 
'Twill  prove  a  beacon  of  the  past, 

To  light  his  future  way. 


51 


TO    A    CITY    PIGEON. 


And  thou  hast  wings  to  bear  thee  far  away, 

Over  bright  fields,  and  to  the  tree-tops  high ; 
And  yet  thou  art  content  with  us  to  stay, 

'Mid  heat  and  turmoil  'neath  our  sultry  sky. 
Bird,  hast  thou  no  desire  to  wander  free  ? 

No  wish  to  taste  the  fresh,  pure  summer  air  ? 
Where  greenwood  songsters  fill  the  swaying  tree, 

Would' st  thou  not  speed  thee,  all  their  mirth  to  share  ? 
Stooping  by  some  clear  fount  to  lave  thy  breast, 
And  smooth  thy  plumage  soft,  ere  flitting  to  thy  nest  ? 


52  TOACITYPIGEON. 

What  have  the  haunts  of  men  to  tempt  thy  stay  ? 

Here  are  no  forests  waving  in  the  breeze  ! 
No  leafy  bowers,  where  fragrant  zephyrs  play  : 

Within  our  city  bounds  we  know  not  these  ; 
Here,  there  is  toil,  and  care,  and  bustling  strife  — 

How  can'st  thou  linger  with  us,  bird,  so  long  ? 
Why  in  thy  noisome  air  wear  out  thy  life  ? 

Fly  to  the  woodland  —  build  its  bowers  among  ; 
Make  thee  a  home  amid  the  fresh  green  leaves  — 
Quit  for  at  least  awhile,  these  dull  and  heated  eaves, 


Had  I  the  pinions  folded  by  thy  side, 

Thy  glossy  feathers,  and  the  power  to  spring 
Upon  the  air,  and  stretch  them  far  and  wide, 

How  quickly  would  I  mount  on  swiftest  wing  : 
Resting  at  noonday  in  some  cool  retreat, 

The  abode  of  birds,  and  where  the  wild  flowers  lie 
Bent  only  by  the  hare's  adventurous  feet, 

And  only  gazed  on  by  the  fawn's  soft  eye  : 
Where  streams  o'er  pebbly  beds  are  murmuring  low, 
Thither  I'd  bear  me  on,  their  music  sweet  to  know. 


TOA     CITY      PIGEON.  53 

I'd  fly  where'er  my  fancy  led  the  way, 

Far  from  the  noise  and  discord  reigning  here  ; 
Light  on  green  lawns,  where  leafy  shadows  play, 

And  drink  from  bubbling  fountains  bright  and  clear  : 
Seek  out  the  scented  violet's  mossy  bed, 

Hid  from  the  sunbeam  by  a  clustering  vine  ; 
I'd  know  each  bank  with  daisies  overspread, 

And  at  the  cottage  porch,  where  wild  brier's  twine, 
There  would  I  pause,  to  catch  the  household  hymn, 
Ringing  in  infant  tones,  out  in  the  twilight  dim. 


And  can'st  thou  linger  V     In  its  pride,  the  rose 

Hangs  on  the  garden  wall,  to  lure  the  bee  ; 
Clad  in  her  summer  beauty,  Nature  glows, 

And  must  she  smile  to  bless  all  else  but  thee  ? 
Thou  answerest,  there  are  ties  to  keep  thee  here  — 

A  parent's  love  swells  in  thy  gentle  breast ; 
Thou  can'st  not  leave  the  fluttering  brood  so  dear, 

And  hie  thee  out  to  find  a  greener  nest ; 
Have  they  not  wings  like  thee  to  follow  on  ? 
Would  they  not  seek  the  land,  where  thou  before  had'st 
gone  ? 


54  TOACITYPIGEON. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  them  —  gentle  bird,  in  thee 

I  read  a  lesson  of  eternal  things  ; 
So  does  the  spirit,  longing  to  be  free, 

Too  oft  forget  its  birth,  and  fold  its  wings  : 
We,  too,  have  ties  that  bind  us  here  below, 

And  dread  to  break  them  all  and  soar  away  ; 
There  is  a  brighter,  better  land,  we  know, 

Yet  fondly  cling  to  one  which  must  decay  ; 
We  know  beyond  us,  lies  a  world  of  bliss, 
And  yet,  with  all  its  ill,  we  fix  our  hearts  in  this  ! 


55 


THOUGHT, 


i. 
Boundless,  illimitable,  who  can  trace 

Thy  varied  journeyings  through  the  realms  of  air  ? 
Thou  mock'st  each  barrier  of  time  or  space, 

And  fliest  on  swiftest  pinions  every  where  ; 
By  thee  we  track  the  past,  long  ages  gone, 

Lost  in  the  dark  abyss  of  buried  time, 
Or  strive  to  pierce  the  future,  dim,  unknown, 

Or,  soaring  upward,  seek  th'  eternal  clime  : 
We  revel  'mid  the  stars,  in  the  high  dome 

Of  God's  all  glorious  temple  richly  spread, 
Make  'mid  their  shining  hosts  the  spirit's  home, 

Among  their  living  lights  where  seraphs  tread  ; 
Hold  our  free  course  unchecked,  till  lost,  amazed, 
We  sink  again  to  earth,  with  our  bright  pathway  dazed. 


56  THOUGHT. 

II. 

But  thou  hast  earthly  rovings,  boundless  Thought ! 

O'er  the  wide  world  thine  eager  wing  is  flying, 

To  vine-clad  realms,  where  fragrant  winds  are  sighing ; 
To  fairy-haunted  grove,  or  storied  grot, 
Thither  thou  lead'st  us  :  hoary  mountains  piled 

High  in  the  clouds,  broad  lakes,  and  rivers  fair, 
And  green  savannas  stretching  vast  and  wild  — 

We  know  them  all,  by  thee  borne  swiftly  there. 
The  lava-buried  cities,  ancient  Rome, 

Judea's  queen,  so  honored,  so  debased, 
Where  He,  the  Man  of  Grief,  vouchsafed  to  come, 

And  through  her  streets  His  path  of  sorrow  traced  — 
To  these  we  speed  us,  what  can  stay  thy  flight 
Ethereal  essence  !  —  swift  as  flash  of  light  ? 


ill. 
And  yet  a  power  more  dear  is  thine,  O  Thought  ! 

By  thee,  long-parted  friends  together  meet, 
Though  seas  divide  them,  by  thy  magic  brought 

In  close  companionship  again  !  how  sweet 


THOUGHT.  57 

To  speak  kind  words  of  sympathy,  once  more 

To  linger  spell-bound  on  some  long-loved  face, 

Again  each  faded  lineament  retrace, 
Till  faithful  memory  all  their  charms  restore  ! 
The  lonely  mother  at  her  cottage  hearth, 

Shudders  to  hear  the  storm  go  rushing  past ; 
And  as  in  fitful  and  demoniac  mirth, 

Shrieks  forth  in  trumpet-tones  the  maddened  blast  — 
She  sees  in  thought,  while  roll  the  blackened  clouds, 
Her   sea-boy's   form,   rocked   in   the   spray-wreathed 
shrouds. 


58 


TASSO'S    CROWN. 


"It  was  resolved,  that  the  greatest  living  poet  of  Italy  should  be  crowned  with  the  laurel 
in  the  imperial  city,  as  Petrarch  had  been  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  before- 
The  decree  to  that  effect  was  passed  by  the  Pope  and  the  Senate ;  but  ere  the  day  of  triumph 
came,  Tasso  was  seized  with  an  illness,  which  lie  instantly  felt  would  be  mortal.  At  his  own 
request,  he  was  immediately  conveyed  to  the  neighbouring  Monastery  of  St.  Onofario,  where, 
surrounded  by  the  consolations  of  that  faith  which  had  been  through  life  his  constant  sup- 
port, he  patiently  awaited  what  he  firmly  believed  would  be  the  issue  of  his  malady.  He 
expired  in  the  arms  of  Cardinal  Cinthio  Aldobrandini.  The  Cardinal  had  brought  him  the 
Pope's  benediction ;  on  receiving  which,  he  exclaimed,  '  This  is  the  crown  with  which  I  hope 
to  be  crowned,  not  as  a  poet  in  the  capital,  but  with  the  glory  of  the  blessed  in  heaven.'" 


Within  a  dim  monastic  pile 

The  gifted  poet  lies  — 
Haste  !  —  bring  the  bright  triumphal  crown, 

The  victor's  glorious  prize  : 
Not  here  should  be  his  resting  place, 

Fame  beckons  him  away, 
With  laurel  wreath  his  brow  to  grace 

Upon  no  distant  day. 


TASSOS       CROWN.  59 

No  distant  day  !  —  Alas  !  for  him 

Vainly  the  leaves  are  twined  — 
The  pulse  beats  low,  the  eye  grows  dim. 

Where  reason  sat  enshrined  ; 
Disease  is  preying  on  his  frame, 

And  death  has  paled  his  brow  — 
To  the  dread  despot's  mighty  power 

He  bends  a  victim  now. 

They  bear  a  blessing  to  his  couch, 

It  wakes  that  death-like  trance, 
And  o'er  the  dying  poet's  soul 

Celestial  visions  glance : 
Hope  lights  the  pathway  to  the  tomb, 

Faith  speaks  of  sin  forgiven  — 
"  Be  this,"  he  cried,  "  my  better  crown, 

Joy  with  the  blessed  in  heaven. 

"  Not  earthly  honors  shall  I  win, 

Nor  laurel  wreath  shall  wear, 
But  bending  with  the  cherubim, 

In  adoration  there  — 


60  TASSO'S      CROWN. 

Before  JEHOVAH'S  throne  —  with  them 
Shall  gain  a  crown  of  light, 

A  fair,  eternal  diadem, 

Nor  time,  nor  change  can  blight. 

"  Away,  away,  each  thought  of  earth, 

Be  mine  to  seek  the  sky  — 
Come,  blessed  hour,  and  bring  the  birth 

Of  immortality ; 
Not  here,  not  here,  my  tuneless  lyre, 

Thy  notes  again  shall  swell ; 
A  golden  harp,  with  strings  of  fire, 

Emmanuel's  praise  shall  tell. 

"  What  now,  the  bard's  undying  fame  ? 

What,  but  an  idle  breath  ! 
I  yield  the  glory  of  a  name 

To  thy  dominion,  death. 
Not  with  thy  lofty  sons,  O  Rome, 

The  garland  shall  I  wear  — 
A  crown  of  pure,  unfading  light 

In  heaven,  awaits  me  there. 


TASSO'S      CROWN.  61 

"  Then  earth,  farewell;  the  fevered  dreams 

Which  wild  ambition  gave, 
Have  faded  like  the  sunset  gleams 

That  gild  the  distant  wave ; 
But  fairer  visions  fill  my  breast, 

And  cheer  my  closing  eye  — 
For  angels,  pointing  to  my  rest, 

Smile  on  me  as  I  die." 

So  passed  the  gifted  one,  whose  lay 

Hallowed  Italia' s  clime  — 
Serenely,  joyously  away, 

Just  in  his  manhood's  prime  : 
Exchanged  the  poet's  wreath  of  fame, 

The  bard's  entrancing  lyre, 
For  brighter  crowns,  and  holier  lays, 

With  heaven's  angelic  choir. 


THE    RETURN    OF    SUMMER, 


1 1  turned  from  all  chc  brought,  to  all  she  could  not  brinjj." 

CHILDE  HAUOLD. 


I. 

Sweet  summer  !  glorious  summer  ! 

Thy  footsteps  once  again 
Are  on  the  green  delighted  earth, 

And  o'er  the  sounding  main  ; 
Thy  light  is  on  the  wilderness, 

Thy  glory  in  the  sky, 
And  thy  richly  varied  melodies 

Are  ever  floating  by  ; 


THE      RETURN      OF       SUMMER.  63 

And  out  upon  the  ocean 

Go  the  ships  all  bounding  free, 
With  thy  gales  to  bear  them  onward, 

O'er  the  bright  rejoicing  sea. 

ii. 
There  are  voices,  many  voices, 

That  ever  wake  with  thee  — 
The  laughter  of  the  mountain  streams, 

The  music  of  the  bee  ; 
The  humming  of  bright  insect  wings 

Amid  the  leafy  trees, 
And  the  softly  breathing  whispers 

Of  the  perfume-laden  breeze  — 
And  the  merry,  merry  measures 

Of  the  feathered  songsters  gay, 
In  the  meadows  and  the  woodlands, 

Far  away  —  far  away  ! 

in. 
Thou  art  roving  on  the  mountains, 

And  thy  voice  is  in  the  dells, 
By  the  sheen  of  silvery  fountains, 

Where  the  water-spirit  dwells  ; 


64  THE      RETURN      OF      SUMMER. 

Where  the  wild  flowers  sweet  are  blushing, 

In  many  a  quiet  nook, 
And  the  starry  moss  lies  gleaming 

By  the  softly-singing  brook  ; 
And  gemmed  with  diamond  dew-drops, 

The  garden  blossoms  stand, 
In  their  robes  of  grace  and  beauty 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 


IV. 

Thou  art  roving  on  the  mountains  ! 

But  the  pent-up  city  child, 
Amid  his  toil  and  weariness, 

With  thee  hath  seldom  smiled  ; 
He  dreameth  of  thy  greenwood  shades, 

Where,  'neath'its  roof  of  leaves 
The  summer  bird,  more  blest  than  he, 

Its  airy  fabric  weaves  ; 
He  dreameth  of  thy  solitudes, 

And  haply  sighs  to  be 
But  for  one  hour,  one  blessed  hour, 

On  the  breezy  hills  with  thee. 


THE      RETURN     OF      SUMMER. 


V. 

Sweet  summer  !  joyous  summer ! 

Unto  every  living  thing 
Thou  art  bearing  light  and  gladness 

On  thy  richly  freighted  wing  ; 
Thy  gifts  of  bloom  are  round  me, 

And  fair  thine  azure  skies, 
Yet  to  me  thou  bring' st,  Oh  !  Summer  fair ! 

But  tender  memories : 
Loved  voices,  whose  sweet  music 

A  spell  around  me  cast; 
Sweet  Summer  !  glorious  Summer  ! 

Bring  me  back  the  past,  the  past. 


VI. 

I  am  musing  on  the  brightness 

That  has  faded  from  my  view, 
And  hopes  which  soared  like  bright-winged  birds, 

In  skies  for  ever  blue  ; 
For  clouds  have  dimmed  my  vision, 

And  sadness  filled  mine  eye  ; 
9 


66  THE      RETURN      OF      SUMMER. 

And  vainly,  Oh !  how  vainly, 
Do  thy  golden  moments  fly ; 

And  in  thy  sunny  gladness 
I  can  bear  no  willing  part ; 

Oh !  give  me  back,  thou  joyous  time, 
The  summer  of  the  heart ! 


67 


KEEPSAKES. 


"I  have  been  looking  over  a  box  of  keepsakes.    Each  little  trinket  had  a  voice  which 
spoke  to  me  of  the  Past." 

PKIVATE  LHTTER. 


A  ring  —  a  simple  band  of  pearl  — 

And  yet  the  image  fair 
Of  a  true-hearted,  merry  girl, 

With  step  as  free  as  air, 
And  eye  all  bright  as  evening's  star, 

These  faded  pearls  recall  — 
The  earliest  playmate  of  my  love, 

And  fairest  of  them  all : 
Around  a  pure,  unclouded  brow, 
Her  silken  tresses  gaily  flow, 


68  KEEPSAKES. 

And  her  sweet  tones  of  youthful  glee 
Come  ringing  as  they  did  to  me 
Long  years  ago,  ere  Care  or  Time 
Had  stolen  the  freshness  of  her  prime. 

We  stood  together  'neath  the  stars,  — 

It  was  a  night  of  June  — 
And  listened  to  the  far-off  voice 

Of  a  waterfall  in  tune  ; 
And  we  spoke  of  old,  familiar  things 

That  happened  long  before  — 
Of  dear  companions  scattered  wide, 

Whom  we  should  meet  no  more ; 
And  she  said,  lest  I  should  e'er  forget 

The  friend  of  Life's  young  day  — 
The  holly  walk  where  first  we  met, 

So  shy,  and  then  so  gay  — 
The  pleasant  hours  by  field  and  stream 

That  we  had  passed  together, 
When  the  world  seemed  just  like  fairy  land, 

And  Life  like  Summer  weather  — 
This  ring  should  on  my  finger  be 
A  talisman  of  memory, 


KEKPSAKES.  69 

i 

To  waken  thoughts  of  love  and  her 
When  she  might  be  a  wanderer 
Far,  far  from  all  we  looked  on  then ; 

Away  from  those  long  prized  so  dearly, 
Whom  she  might  never  see  again, 

Though  she  would  love  them,  Oh  sincerely! 
Then  from  her  hand  the  gift  she  drew, 

And  placed  the  glittering  pledge  on  mine  — 
Hush !  'twas  but  Fancy's  whispered  tone  : 

Sweet  friend,  it  is  not  thine  ! 
Thou  art  beyond  the  surging  sea, 

A  thousand  leagues  away, 
But  this  band  of  pearl  hath  called  thee  back 

Unto  my  heart  to-day, 
The  same  fair  thing  of  light  and  glee 
That  lives  within  my  memory. 

A  braid  of  hair  :  the  hand  which  gave 

This  golden  tress,  had  nought  beside  ; 

Hers  were  no  jewels  of  the  wave, 

No  radiant  gems,  no  high-born  pride  ; 

Unskilled  in  art,  unknown  to  fame, 

Of  lowly  birth  and  humble  name  — 


70  KEEPSAKES. 

A  simple  cottage  maid  ; 
Yet  well  I  loved  the  gentle  child  ! 
Like  some  fair  floweret  of  the  wild 
Untrained,  yet  fragrant  still,  she  smiled, 

In  native  grace  arrayed. 

I  long  had  known  sweet  Amy  Lee, 
As  blithe  as  wild-bird,  or  as  bee, 
As  meek  as  are  the  lilies  white, 
Which  hide  their  petals  from  the  light 

Beneath  their  leaves  of  green ; 
As  gentle  as  the  young  gazelle  — 
So  fragile,  yet  beloved  so  well  — 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  might  not  dwell 

Where  storms  had  ever  been. 
Twelve  summers  only  had  she  known  — 

How  swift  their  course  was  run  ! 
So  gaily,  gladly  had  they  flown, 

We  deemed  them  scarce  begun. 
Then  came  the  blight  upon  our  flower : 

Consumption's  fatal  breath 
Had  doomed  our  rose-bud  of  an  hour 

To  bend  its  head  in  death  : 


KEEPSAKES.  71 

And  well  she  knew  her  fate  must  be 

To  bid  farewell  to  stream  and  tree, 

To  mossy  bank,  to  sylvan  dell, 

To  woodpaths  that  she  loved  so  well, 

To  bird  and  bud,  to  earth  and  sky, 

Then  turn  from  all  their  charms  —  and  die. 

'Twas  sad  to  part;  yet  well  she  knew 

Of  that  bright  world  beyond  her  view  — 

Of  those  unfading  flowers,  that  blow 

Where  pure,  untroubled  waters  flow  : 

And  she  had  gazed,  with  Faith's  keen  eye, 

Till  doubt  was  changed  to  ecstacy, 

And  longed  to  seek  those  regions  fair, 

And  find  eternal  spring-time  there. 

One  morn  I  sought  her  cottage-door, 
The  old  green  woodbine,  clambering  o'er, 
Checkered  the  sunshine  on  the  floor, 

With  sweets  perfumed  the  air  : 
I  sat  beside  the  dying  child, 
And  watched  how  tranquilly  she  smiled  — 

How  calm  her  features  were : 
Then  from  her  head  she  bade  me  take, 


72  KEEPSAKES. 

And  keep  it  for  poor  Amy's  sake, 

This  tress  of  golden  hair  : 
That  when  long  years  had  rolled  o'er  me, 
And  she  was  sleeping  peacefully, 
Its  shining  threads  perhaps  might  tell 
Of  one  who  loved  me  passing  well. 
She  died  upon  that  summer  morn  — 

I  marked  her  fleeting  breath, 
And  caught  her  last  faint  sigh,  and  saw 

Her  features  fixed  in  death  ! 
And  I  have  kept  the  braid  of  hair, 
In  memory  of  one  so  fair  : 
Its  glossy  folds  still  speak  to  me 
The  gentle  name  of  Amy  Lee  ! 

A  broken  chain  —  its  severed  links 

Are  where  ?  in  some  strange  land  they  He  ; 
But  he  who  holds  them  hath,  methinks, 

A  day-dream  when  they  meet  his  eye  : 
He  turns  in  thought,  half  musing  then, 

Unto  one  bright,  autumnal  even, 
When  moonbeams  lit  our  native  glen, 

And  stars  were  thickly  set  in  heaven, 


KEEPSAKES.  73 

And  we  together  stood  beneath 

The  old  home  porch,  and,  half  in  jest, 
He  played  the  lover,  kneeling  low, 

And  a  deep  passion  then  confessed  : 
And  when  I  smiled,  and  said  I  knew 

His  ardent  love  would  yield  to  time, 
He  broke  this  golden  chain  in  two, 

And  asked,  when  in  a  foreign  clime 
'Twas  his  to  linger,  sad  and  lone, 
That  I  would  sometimes  gaze  upon 
Its  glittering  circles,  and  believe 
His  was  no  heart  that  could  deceive. 
We  parted,  as  warm  friends  would  part, 

And  he  went  o'er  the  tossing  main  ; 
Another  won  \h&\,  faithful  heart, 

And  he  forgot  the  broken  chain  : 
And  now  he  may  not  think  of  me, 
Save  its  bright  remnant  he  should  see. 

A  leaf —  a  seal  —  a  faded  flower  — 

Each  have  a  different  tale, 
And  each  recall  some  pleasant  hour, 

By  streamlet,  wood  or  vale, 
10 


74  KEEPSAKES. 

This  bracelet  clasped  a  lovely  arm  ; 
This  heart  of  topaz  hath  a  charm 

Of  other  days  for  me  ; 
Some  fair  companion's  merry  glance, 
My  partner  in  the  mazy  dance, 

In  this  old  broach  I  see ; 
And  this  small  volume's  sacred  lore 
Recalls  a  counsellor  of  yore, 
Whose  faithful  warnings,  heard  no  more, 

Yet  live  in  memory. 

Oh,  ye  have  voices  for  mine  ear, 

Ye  silent  things  !  none  else  can  hear  ; 

Each  little  offering  hath  for  me 

A  sweet,  a  separate  history  : 

A  tale  of  Love,  or  Joy,  or  Grief — 

An  hour  of  gladness,  bright  and  brief; 

And  those  long  dead,  or  far  away, 

Have  lived  and  smiled  for  me  to-day  ! 


75 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  DREAM  OP  HOME. 


He  stood  alone,  amid  the  magic  forms 

His  chisel's  touch  had  wakened.     There  were  shapes 

Of  rare  and  most  exceeding  loveliness  ; 

And  the  cold  marble  seemed  instinct  with  life, 

So  vividly  had  his  high  art  called  back 

The  buried  past,  and  peopled  that  dim  spot 

With  the  bright  creatures  of  poetic  thought. 

He  stood  alone,  a  stranger.     His  loved  home, 

Far  o'er  the  sea,  in  the  fair  western  world, 

Lay  in  its  untold  beauty.     Mountain  heights 


76          THE     SCULPTOR'S    DREAM    OP    HOME. 

Reared  their  blue  summits  to  the  summer  heaven ; 
Broad  prairie  lands,  where  bounds  the  buffalo, 
Still  stretched,  unmeasured  by  the  gazer's  eye  ; 
And  the  far-reaching  rivers,  deep  and  strong, 
Linked  shining  lakes  with  ocean.  —  But  for  him, 
Though  fair  as  Eden  were  its  grassy  vales, 
Its  wooded  heights,  and  rush  of  crystal  waves, 
His  spirit's  eager  wing  sought  other  climes. 
A  restless  craving  for  the  beautiful 
In  art,  lured  him  from  home  and  country : 
Fame's  silver  trumpet  rang  upon  his  ear  — 
Her  laurel  wreath  hung  o'er  him  in  the  clouds, 
And  for  the  deathless  garland  burned  his  brow. 
Italy  !  thrice  glorious  Italy  ! 
The  cradle  of  young  Genius,  nurse  of  Art, 
Seemed  as  the  Promised  Land,  and  thither  roamed 
His  willing  feet. 

And  the  bright  goal  was  won  ! 
Fame  numbered  him  among  her  noblest  sons, 
And  'neath  his  touch,  shapes  of  unearthly  beauty, 
Such  as  in  dreams  ethereal  only  dwell, 
Or  in  the  poet's  fancy  start  to  life, 


THE    SCULPTOR'S    DREAM    OF    HOME.  77 

Sprang  from  the  senseless  marble.     Men  looked  on, 

And  marvelled  at  his  power ;  his  name  was  heard 

In  the  high  halls  of  great  and  god-like  Art, 

And  his  the  hour  of  triumph  —  lo,  his  brow 

Wore  the  green  wreath  he  sighed  for  ;  but  there  came 

To  dim  the  sunlight  of  that  glorious  morn, 

A  heartsick  yearning  for  his  early  home, 

And  the  fond  playmate  of  his  boyhood  years. 

Fame  could  not  fill  the  places  of  the  lost  — 

Her  clarion  music,  proud  although  it  be, 

Was  discord  to  the  tones  of  tenderness 

His  wearied  spirit  asked,  yet  asked  in  vain. 

He  is  alone  —  but  thought  hath  borne  him  on, 
'Till  the  dim  studio  seems  a  greenwood  shade, 
'Neath  the  blue  skies  of  his  own  native  land. 
The  gush  of  rills,  the  song  of  summer  birds, 
And  the  low  hum  of  busy  insect  wings, 
Break  on  the  stillness  of  the  summer  day  : 
A  wild,  sweet  laugh,  the  echo  of  glad  thoughts, 
Comes  to  his  ear  —  his  gentle  sister's  voice 
Calls  him  to  join  her  rambles,  and  they  roam 
Through  the  cool  arches  of  the  quiet  wood, 


78    THE  SCULPTOR'S  DREAM  OF  HOME. 

Till  the  first  star  hath  risen,  and  amid 

The  dark  green  boughs  is  flashing,  like  a  gem, 

The  fire-fly's  light. 

Theirs  is  the  converse  sweet 
Of  souls  congenial,  for  each  youthful  heart 
Hath  in  its  hidden  depths  a  perfect  world 
Of  poetry,  and  a  most  subtle  sense 
Of  all  things  beautiful  in  Nature.     She 
Hath  some  rare  fancy  floating  through  her  brain, 
And  whispers  in  his  ear  that  she  hath  clothed 
A  fairy  legend  in  bewitching  rhyme  ;  while  he, 
Catching  the  glories  of  a  sunset  sky, 
Tells,  how  in  Italy  the  eve  is  bright 
With  hues  Italian  skies  can  only  know. 
Oh  !  blessed  vision  !  linger,  linger  still, 
Cheer  the  lone  heart,  that  pines  for  home  once  more, 
And  bear  the  exile  back  on  memory's  wing, 
To  the  dear  haunts  of  boyhood. 

Lo !  a  step 

Hath  roused  him  from  his  dream';  the  greenwood  shades 
Have  vanished,  and  the  arches  of  the  wood 


THE    SCULPTOR'S    DREAM     OP     HOME.          70 

Give  place  to  time-stained  walls  of  massive  stone  : 

The  low,  sweet  murmur  of  his  sister's  voice 

Hath  passed,  like  music  from  the  wind-harp's  string  ; 

Far  o'er  the  booming  billow  lies  his  home, 

And  he  is  in  his  studio  —  alone. 


so 


TO    BSTELLE. 


"  No,  the  eye  of  friendship  may  not  read 

All  that  the  heart  contains, 
Its  wealth  of  love,  its  tenderness, 

Its  pleasures,  and  its  pains. 

ESTELLE. 


And  say'st  them  so,  my  gentle  friend  ? 

And  dost  thou  deem,  indeed, 
Thy  poet-heart  a  secret  page, 

Which  none  beside  may  read  ? 
It  may  be  so  with  many  a  one 

Who  idly  scans  the  leaf, 
They  may  not  guess  how  pure  its  joy, 

How  deep  its  inmost  grief,  — 


TOESTELLE.  81 

They  may  not  dream  its  love  must  burn 

An  ever  quenchless  flame, 
How  oft  a  chord  within  thy  breast 

May  vibrate  at  a  name,  — 
But  ah  !  a  sybil's  power  is  mine, 

To  read  its  hidden  lore  ; 
And  the  witching  spell  of  poetry 

Can  a  poet's  heart  explore. 

I  know  thou  lov'st  the  beautiful, 

In  earth,  and  air,  and  sea, 
The  sunset  clouds,  as  they  robe  the  west 

In  a  gorgeous  drapery  ; 
The  lurid  glare  of  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  the  meteor's  path  of  light ; 
The  silver  moon,  and  the  quiet  stars, 

In  the  holy  hours  of  night. 

The  ocean  waves  have  a  voice  for  thee, 
And  the  gentle  woodland  streams, 

And  they  haunt  thy  heart  with  their  melody, 
In  the  far-off  land  of  dreams  ; 
11 


82  TOESTELLE. 

The  whispering  winds  in  the  forest  boughs, 

Have  for  thee  a  mystic  tone, 
And  the  green  arcades,  and  the  leafy  glades, 

Speak  to  thy  heart  alone. 

Thou  lovest  the  wild  bird's  mellow  note, 

When  he  carols  his  morning  hymn, 
And  the  dew-drop  that  lies  on  the  violet's  breast, 

Or  jewels  the  lily's  brim  : 
Thou  weavest  a  tissue  all  fair  and  bright, 

To  color  the  humblest  things, 
For  a  world  lies  hidden  within  thy  heart, 

Where  ever  sweet  fancy  springs  ; 
A  world,  where  dwelleth  in  rainbow  hues 

The  thoughts  that  in  heaven  have  birth  ; 
Which  hover  o'er,  like  the  fabled  bird,  * 

But  touch  not  this  clouded  earth. 

Thou  lovest  the  summer,  that  gaily  flings 
Green  wreaths  upon  every  bough, 

*  The  Hunia,  which  is  said  to  fly  above,  but  never  to  touch  the  earth. 


TOESTELLE.  83 

And  I  know  thpu  lovest  the  glittering  gems 

That  circle  the  Frost-king's  brow: 
The  insect  that  floats  on  the  perfumed  gale, 

Were  a  theme  for  many  an  hour, 
For  thou  see'st  its  Maker's  mighty  hand 

In  the  tiniest  leaf  or  flower  ; 
I  know  thou  readest  a  lesson  pure, 

In  each  blossom  that  decks  the  sod, 
And  lookest  up  with  a  trusting  heart, 

Through  Nature,  to  Nature's  GOD. 

But  deeper  things,  far  deeper  things, 

Lie  hid  in  that  heart  of  thine, 
Like  jewels  that  sleep  in  their  earthy  beds, 

Low  down  in  the  secret  mine  : 
The  hoarded  wealth  of  affections  pure, 

A  child,  and  a  sister's  love,  — 
And  the  Christian  hope,  that  will  light  thy  way, 

To  a  glorious  world  above  : 
And  Oh  !   there  are  tender  memories, 

Of  the  lost  and  lovely  there, 
That  come  when  the  busy  world  is  still, 

And  thou  hast  knelt  down  in  prayer  : 


84  TOESTELLE. 

That  come  o'er  thy  heart  in  the  holy  hush 

Of  the  solemn  midnight,  lone, 
And  the  by-gone  years,  and  the  parted  friends, 

Are  once  again  thine  own. 

Then  say,  fair  friend,  have  I  read  aright 

Thy  heart's  mysterious  page  ? 
Hath  my  sybil  power,  and  witching  spell, 
Unlocked  the  door  of  that  holy  cell, 
Where  Love,  with  his  shining  wings,  doth  dwell, 

And  Thought  hath  his  golden  cage  ? 
Ah  !  deem  not  thou  the  prying  eye, 

To  intrude  in  that  spot,  would  dare, 
I  did  but  look  in  my  own  fond  heart, 

And  thine  was  reflected  there. 


85 


REMEMBRANCE. 


'To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 
Is  not  to  die." 

CAMPBELL. 


Do  not  forget  me  —  I  would  not  my  name 
As  a  strange  language,  to  your  ears  became, 
But  seldom  uttered,  only  heard  with  sighs, 
As  harp-string  to  the  moaning  wind  replies, 

Not  so,  not  so  ! 

Speak  of  me,  when  the  summer  day  is  bright 
With  glorious  sunbeams,  and  the  golden  light 
Streams  through  the  lattice  of  my  own  green  bower  ; 
Let  me  be  there  in  that  rejoicing  hour 

At  least  in  name. 


R  E  M  E  M  BRA  NCE  . 

Speak  of  me,  when  the  twilight's  purple  haze 
Shuts  each  fair  prospect  from  your  ardent  gaze, 
And  turning  to  the  quiet  joys  of  home, 
Fond  memories  of  departed  dear  ones  come 

To  stir  the  heart. 

Speak  of  me,  when  in  heaven's  blue  arch  afar, 
Shines  forth  in  glory  each  effulgent  star  ; 
Say  how  I  loved  their  lustre,  that  my  name 
May  ever  dwell  amid  their  hosts  of  flame 

To  meet  your  eyes. 

Speak  of  me,  when  my  own  sweet  garden  rose, 
On  slender  stem,  in  moss-clad  beauty  blows  : 
I  would  be  linked  with  all  the  flowers  that  bloom, 
Till  ye  might  half  forget  the  cold,  dark  tomb, 

Where  I  must  lie. 

Speak  of  me,  when  around  the  winter's  hearth, 
Young  hearts  are  cheerful  with  the  season's  mirth, 
And  strike  the  soft  guitar  I  love  so  well, 
And  let  its  chords  in  some  old  ballad  tell 

A  tale  of  me. 


REMEMBRANCE.  87 

Speak  of  me  not  in  sorrow,  for  ye  know 
To  what  calm  skies  and  gentle  streams  I  go  ; 
To  flowers  that  fade  not,  through  eternal  Spring, 
All  robed  in  light,  to  wear  an  angel's  wing, 

An  angel's  crown. 

9 

Speak  of  me,  then,  with  gladness,  not  with  tears  ; 
For  when  have  flitted  by  a  few  short  years, 
Ye  too  will  pass  from  earthly  care  and  pain, 
And  we  shall  meet  all  joyfully  again, 

No  more  to  part. 


88 


LAMENT    OF    AGE    FOR    BOYHOOD 


My  boyhood !  Oh  !  my  boyhood  ! 

Give  me  back  the  blessed  time, 
When  the  heart  so  gay  and  careless, 

And  the  light-winged  hours  were  mine  ; 
Give  me  back  the  bounding  footstep,  — 

Give  me  back  the  merry  tone,  — 
And  the  laugh  that  rang  so  lightly, 

Ere  those  golden  hours  had  flown. 


LAMENT      OF      AGE      FOR      BOYHOOD.  89 

Give  me  back  but  for  a  moment, 

Those  happy,  happy  days  ! 
For  the  path  we  tread  in  manhood, 

Is  a  dim,  bewildering  maze  ; 
The  flowers  that  bloom  the  fairest, 

Are  the  earliest  to  decay ; 
And  the  joys  we  prize  the  dearest, 

Are  the  first  to  pass  away. 

But  Oh !  the  hours  of  boyhood 

Fleet  by  on  pinion's  fair  ; 
And  the  sunshine  of  untroubled  hearts 

Makes  constant  summer  there  : 
For  care  is  but  a  phantom  shade, 

To  bosoms  light  and  gay ; 
And  sorrow  comes,  but  in  the  cloud 

That  dims  a  holy  day. 

Oh !  gaily  flew  the  butterfly 

I  chased  across  the  lea ; 
And  but  to  catch  the  fluttering  thing, 

Was  joy  enough  for  me,  — 
12 


90  LAMENT      OF      AGE      FOR     BOYHOOD. 

Alas  !  since  then,  I've  followed  far 

Full  many  a  painted  toy ; 
And  found  it  like  the  gilded  moth 

That  lured  the  truant  boy. 

• 
Oh !  give  me  back  my  boyhood  ! 

Let  me  feel  the  keen  delight 
Of  a  kite  upon  the  summer  gale, 

Like  an  eagle  in  its  flight,  — 
The  bounding  ball,  the  flying  race, 

The  arrow  on  the  wing  — 
The  old  man's  heart  can  vibrate  still 

If  memory  touch  the  string. 

I  see  the  old  green  meadows, 

Where  of  yore  I  used  to  stray ; 
They  have  lost  methinks  their  verdure, 

And  my  play-mates  —  where  are  they  ? 
The  grass  is  green  o'er  many  a  brow, 

That  wore  no  shadow  then  — 
And  the  rest,  have  changed  from  merry  boys, 

To  strange,  cold-hearted  men. 


LAMENT   OP   AGE  FOR  BOYHOOD.        91 

Oh  !  give  me  back  the  feelings 

Of  my  early  by-gone  years  ! 
Ere  my  heart  had  throbbed  with  sorrow, 

Or  mine  eye  been  dimmed  with  tears  ; 
I  would  forget  each  present  scene, 

And  know  again  the  joy 
That  blessed  me  in  the  golden  days, 

When  I  was  but  a  boy. 


92 


AN   AUTUMN    THOUGHT. 


Methinks  I  never  saw  the  autumn  woods 

So  beautiful  as  now.     They  have  put  on 

Their  rainbow  coloured  garments  hastily, 

As  from  his  icy  palace  in  the  North, 

With  a  stern  eye  upon  the  shrinking  flowers, 

And  hoarsely  heralding  the  coming  cold, 

The  Frost  King  hurries;  and  like  courtiers,  soon 

Donned  each  their  robes  of  state,  at  his  approach. 


AN     AUTUMN     THOUGHT.  93 

How  brightly  the  October  sunlight  gleams 
Over  the  changing  forest.     See  !  tall  shafts 
Of  opal,  or  of  amber,  rise  around, 
Like  pillars  of  a  genii's  banquet  hall ; 
With  a  fair  dome  of  sapphire  over  them, 
Exceeding  beautiful ! 

For  me  they  wear, 

These  frost-touched  forest  leaves  of  varied  hue, 
A  beauty  which  the  summer  yieldeth  not, 
Despite  its  wealth  of  flowers.     I  love  thee,  June  ! 
With  thy  soft  breath,  and  deeply  azure  skies, 
And  purple  twilight  hours  ;  but  more  I  love 
A  noon-tide  ramble  in  the  Autumn  woods, 
When  through  the  half-stript  branches  streams  the  sun, 
And  'neath  our  feet  the  dry  leaves  rustle  ; 
When  answering  echo  mocks  the  sportsman's  gun, 
And  swift  across  our  path  the  squirrel  springs, 
Or  nimble-footed  hare.     The  Autumn  gales 
Have  a  reviving  influence,  and  awake 
A  thought  of  earlier  hours,  when  there  seemed 
No  shadow  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  streams 


94  AN     AUTUMN     THOUGHT. 

Were  ever  musical  —  and  far  away 

From  half  conned  lessons,  with  a  chosen  few, 

We  sought  the  falling  nuts,  and  joyfully 

Broke  like  a  bubbling  fountain's  silvery  tone, 

The  merry  laugh  from  young  and  careless  hearts ; 

And  life  seemed  all  as  full  of  happiness, 

As  did  that  bright  day  in  the  Autumn  woods. 


95 


THE  DYING  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


They  tell  me  life  is  waning  fast, 

And  Death's  dark  wing  unfurled, 
Will  bear  my  spirit  soon  from  earth, 

Unto  an  unknown  world : 
I  feel,  beloved,  it  must  be  so, — 

I  feel  that  even  now 
His  hand  is  on  my  fluttering  heart, 

His  shadow  o'er  my  brow. 


96  THE      DYING     WIFE      TO      HER     HUSBAND 

How  shall  I  leave  thee  ?  —  how  resign 

Thy  tenderness  and  care  ? 
The  pressure  of  thy  clasping  hand, 

Thy  blessing,  and  thy  prayer  ? 
Together  we  have  tasted  joy, 

Together  wept  in  ill, 
And  the  love  that  was  so  bright  in  bliss, 

In  grief  was  brighter  still. 

Wilt  thou  not  miss  me  from  thy  side 

When  twilight's  hour  hath  come  ? 
Will  it  not  seem  a  desert  place, 

The  paradise  of  home  ? 
Then,  gather  close  with  brooding  love 

Our  children  round  thy  knee, 
And  wipe  with  tenderest  hand  the  tears 

Which  they  will  shed  for  me. 

And  soothe  each  little  throbbing  heart 

That  asks  for  me  in  vain, 
And  say,  that  in  the  far-off  heaven 

Their  mother  lives  again  ; 


THE   DYING   WIFE   TO   HER   HUSBAND.     97 

Link  not  my  name  with  thoughts  of  death, 

But  point  them  to  the  sky, 
And  tell  them,  in  the  "  Better  Land" 

They  neither  weep  nor  die. 

Go  with  them  to  their  lonely  couch 

At  evening's  silent  close, 
And  softly  press  each  pillowed  cheek, 

And  hush  them  to  repose  ; 
Or  bid  them  kneel  with  clasped  hands 

To  lisp  their  evening  prayer  ; 
Thou  must  unite  a  father's  love, 

With  all  a  mother's  care. 

A  mother's  care  !  a  mother's  love  ! 

And  must  they  never  know 
How  deeply  in  her  "heart  of  hearts" 

A  mother's  love  may  glow  ? 
Will  they  yet  bloom  in  girlhood  fair, 

While  she  who  gave  them  birth 
Lies  all  forgotten  far  away, 

In  one  lone  spot  of  earth  ? 
13 


98      THE   DYING   WIFE   TO   HER   HUSBAND. 

Forgotten  !  no,  beloved  one,  no  ! 

Thou  wilt  remember  still 
The  being  who  hath  shared  thy  lot 

Alike  in  good  or  ill ; 
Thou  wilt  remember  all  her  love, 

With  faithful,  fond  regret ; 
And  but  the  faults  she  could  not  hide, 

Thy  heart  will  e'er  forget. 

And  thou  wilt  come  to  that  lone  spot 

Where  the  green  willow  waves, 
And  lead  our  children's  tiny  feet 

Among  the  quiet  graves  ; 
And  read  for  them  the  sculptured  stone  — 

Brief  record  of  my  life  — 
Then  say  how  faithfully  I  loved, 

As  mother,  and  as  wife. 

How  can  I  say  farewell  to  thee  ? 

How  mark  thy  bitter  tears  ? 
Look  up,  beloved,  we  only  part 

For  a  few  fleeting  years  ; 


THE   DYING  WIFE   TO   HER  HUSBAND.     99 

They  will  roll  o'er  thy  darkened  path, 

Swiftly  as  shadows  flee, 
And  in  a  world  of  holier  love 

Will  our  blest  meeting  be. 


100 


THE    LAND    OF    JOY. 


"  The  inhabitants  of  this  country  (Zinge)  are  never  afflicted  with  sadness  or  melancholy. 

NOTES  TO  LALLA  ROOKH. 


Bear  me  to  that  blest  place ! 
That  home  of  cheerful  hearts  and  tearless  eyes ; 

Whereon  no  shadow  lies, 
And  where  no  sorrow  leaves  its  wonted  trace. 

This  is  a  land  of  care  ! 
Tears  dim  the  eye,  and  cheeks  are  early  pale  : 

Grief  is  on  every  gale  ;  — 
But  that  bright  shore  —  have  they  no  sorrow  there  ? 


THE      LAND      OF     JOY.  101 

Do  they  not  mourn  the  dead  ? 
Do  not  the  lovely  pass  like  ours  away  ? 

Do  they  not  weep  by  day, 
And  through  the  night  toss  on  a  sleepless  bed  ? 

Do  they  not  part  for  years, 
As  we  do,  from  the  beings  loved  the  best? 

And  can  they,  do  they  rest, 
With  no  vain  longings,  no  dark  bitter  fears  ? 

Are  they  not  called  to  keep 
Long  weary  vigils  by  the  couch  of  pain  ? 

Have  they  ne'er  watched  in  vain 
For  th'  awakening  from  that  dreamless  sleep  ? 

Oh  !  Are  they  so  much  blest ! 
While  here  we  combat  with  unending  care  ? 

Then  bear  me,  bear  me  there  — 
Give  me  in  that  bright  land,  a  home,  a  rest ! 

Imaginary  spot ! 
There  cannot  be  on  earth  such  place  of  peace, 

Where  joys  can  ne'er  decrease, 
Where  cares,  and  tears,  and  sorrows,  enter  not ! 


102  THELANDOFJOY. 

Be  still,  then,  panting  heart ! 
Forbear  thy  longing  for  such  blest  abode, 

And  struggle  on,  till  God 
Shall  bid  thee  to  a  better  rest  depart. 


103 


THE    SUMMER    RAIN. 


The  Summer  rain,  the  Summer  rain ! 

It  is  streaming  down  to  the  earth  again  ; 

The  hills  are  green  where  the  bright  drops  lie, 

And  hid  are  the  bee  and  the  butterfly  : 

The  pools  are  filled,  and  the  streamlets  flow 

O'er  pebbly  beds,  with  their  music  low  ; 

And  the  lily  is  lifting  her  chalice  fair, 

And  the  red-rose  swings  in  the  freshened  air, 

And  flower-cups  bend  to  the  blessed  rain, 

That  is  streaming  down  to  the  earth  again. 


104  THE      SUMMER     RAIN. 

It  bringeth  joy  to  a  thousand  things, 
The  thirsty  herbage  to  meet  it  springs  ; 
The  corn  is  drinking  the  blessed  draught, 
And  the  oak  of  the  forest  its  stream  hath  quaffed, 
And  the  light  leaves  laugh,  as  its  silvery  tide, 
Like  a  gift  of  beauty,  falls  far  and  wide  ; 
The  smallest  flower,  in  the  deepest  glen, 
That  never  bloomed  for  the  eye  of  men  — 
The  gayest  plant  in  the  garden's  bound  — 
The  broadest  bough  in  the  greenwood  found  — 
Each  blade  of  grass,  and  each  stately  tree, 
Drinketh  the  rain-drops  joyfully. 


What  doth  it  image  —  the  Summer  rain, 
When  clouds  are  spread  over  earth  again  ? 
And  softly  on  meadow,  and  hill,  and  grove, 
It  comes  like  a  voice  from  the  world  above  ? 
It  speaks  of  the  Spirit's  holy  power 
On  the  human  heart  in  affliction's  hour; 
So  doth  it  fall,  when  the  heart  is  sere, 
With  the  parching  cares  of  this  lower  sphere ; 


THE     SUMMER     RAIN.  105 

So  doth  it  fall,  when  the  smiling  sky 

Is  dim  with  the  clouds  of  adversity  ;  — 

So  doth  it  soften  the  stony  breast, 

As  the  glittering  drops  upon  earth  are  pressed  ; 

'Till,  as  incense  sweet  after  Summer  rain, 

The  soul  will  rise  towards  heaven  again. 


14 


106 


ELEGIAC. 


N     MEMORY      OF      MRS.      S.      W.     C 


Why  should  we  mourn  thee  ? 

See,  the  captive  bird 

Hath  burst  its  prison  bar,  and  wanders  free 
Through  the  clear  ether,  till  no  more  is  heard 

Its  minstrelsy. 

Should  we  deplore  its  flight, 
As  up  the  blue  expanse  with  quivering  wings 

Exultingly  it  springs, 

Spreading  its  pinions  toward  the  throne  of  light, 
And  leaving  far  behind,  the  land  of  chains  and  night  ? 


ELEGIAC.  107 

Why  should  we  mourn  thee  ? 

When  the  exile  lone, 
Homeward  returning,  from  afar  espies 
His  cot's  low  roof  with  verdure  overgrown, 
'Mid  the  green  foliage  where  embowered  it  lies ; 
And  pressing  forward  with  a  bounding  heart 
And  quickened  footstep,  gains  the  destined  spot  — 
From  its  loved  shelter  could  we  say,  Depart, 
And  seek  again  the  pilgrim's  weary  lot  — 
Each  hardship  o'er,  each  peril  now  forgot  ? 


Why  should  we  mourn  thee  V 

Gifted  one,  thy  lyre 

Gave  the  sweet  echoes  of  thy  soul's  warm  lay  : 
Strings  such  as  angels  sweep,  the  golden  wire 
That  vibrates  to  a  seraph's  touch  of  fire  ; 

The  holy,  holy  song 

Immortal  lips  prolong ; 

These  were  thy  high  aspirings,  and  thy  robe  of  clay, 
Bound  but  thy  spirit-wings,  which  longed  to  soar  away. 


108  ELEGIAC. 

Why  should  we  mourn  thee  ? 

In  thy  bright  abode 

Pain  is  unknown,  and  sorrow  hath  no  place, 
The  heritage  alone  of  those  who  trace 

Life's  thorny  road. 
'Tis  for  ourselves  we  weep, 

Poor  earth-bound  prisoners  still, 
On  our  toilsome  way  and  steep, 

With  our  load  of  care  and  ill ; 
But  for  thee,  sweet  songstress,  thee  ! 

Be  our  purest  praises  given, 
Like  the  captive  bird  made  free ; 
Like  the  exile,  joyously, 

Thou  hast  gained  thy  home  in  heaven, 
And  thine  earthly  lyre, 
Though  quenched  its  fire, 
Will  echo  again,  'mid  the  angel  choir. 


109 


NIGHT, 


Draw  down  thy  misty  curtains,  "  solemn  night," 
Dim  the  fierce  fires  which  still  illume  the  west ; 

While  stars  look  down  with  sweet  though  distant  light, 
Bring  to  each  weary  thing  its  hour  of  rest : 
Sleep  to  the  little  song-bird  in  its  nest, 

Dew  to  young  blossoms,  bending  on  the  tree  ; 

Call  home,  on  busy  wing,  the  housewife  bee, 
And  seal  up  infant  eyes,  in  fond  arms  pressed. 

Be  thine,  to  soothe  earth's  worn  and  weary  child, 
With  hours  of  sweet  and  undisturbed  repose  — 
Still  human  hearts,  that  beat  with  wants  and  woes, 

And  lull  a  thousand  griefs  ;  physician  mild  ! 

The  couch  of  pain  with  healthful  visions  bless, 

And  cure  all  ills  in  deep  forgetfulness. 


110 


THE    DIAMOND    OF    THE    DESERT. 


"It  is  called  in  the  Arabic  language,"  answered  the  Saracen,  "by  a  name  which  signifiesf 

the  '  Diamond  of  the  Desert.' " 

SCOTT. 


Slowly  o'er  parched  and  dreary  plains, 

Fainting  beneath  the  solar  ray  ; 
While  hope  of  rescue  scarce  remains, 

The  weary  pilgrim  takes  his  way. 
Around  him,  barren  deserts  lie, 
Above  him,  bends  a  burning  sky, 
Or  the  dread  Simoon's  fatal  breath, 
Sweeps  o'er  his  pathway,  fraught  with  death. 


THE      DIAMOND      OP      THE      DESERT.  Ill 

But  now,  to  cheer  his  anxious  eye, 

Appears  one  little  spot  of  green, 
Sole  vestige  of  fertility, 

Amid  that  desolated  scene. 
And  oh  !  how  grateful  none  can  know, 
Is  the  cool  fountain's  silver  flow, 
Which  brightly  beams  to  cheer  and  bless, 
In  that  wild  waste  of  barrenness. 

To  rest  beside  the  bubbling  fount, 

Quaffing  its  waters  as  they  glide, 
And  dangers  of  the  way  recount 

To  fellow  pilgrims  by  his  side  ; 
How  shall  the  wanderer  leave  its  brink  ? 
He  stoops  again,  —  again, — to  drink, 
And  bears  through  all  his  desert  way, 
The  memory  of  that  fountain's  play. 

So,  'mid  the  arid  wastes  of  life, 

Where  panting  pilgrims  onward  roam, 

Wearied  with  earth,  its  toil,  its  strife, 
Sighing  to  find  some  surer  home  ;  — 


112  THE      DIAMOND      OP      THE      DESERT 

Religion,  like  the  silver  wave, 
Pours  its  pure  stream  to  bless  and  save ; 
And  lies,  like  that  bright  fountain  clear, 
The  "  Diamond  of  the  Desert "  here. 

And  ye  who  vainly  sigh  for  rest, 

Who  thirst  for  purer  streams  of  joy  — 
Here,  with  the  living  waters  blessed, 
Drink,  deeply  drink,  without  alloy. 
Sparkling  with  light  its  waves  flow  on, 
Refreshing  all  they  gleam  upon, 
And  he  who  tastes  the  healing  tide, 
Will  ask  no  other  fount  beside. 


113 


OU'R   REST, 


;  This  is  not  your  rest,  it  is  polluted." 


This  is  not  our  rest  —  'tis  a  region  of  care, 

A  land  of  perplexities,  dangers,  and  fears, 
And  hearts  that  are  beating  with  rapture,  may  share 

An  hour  of  transport,  with  bitterest  tears  : 
And  when  we  look  round  on  life's  pathway  of  ill, 

Although  it  may  sometimes  seem  happy  and  blsst, 
Back,  back  to  our  bosoms,  conviction  will  thrill, 

And  everything  teach  us,  this  is  not  our  rest. 

15 


114  OUR      RE  ST. 

This  is  not  our  rest  —  for  the  dark  wing  of  grief, 

May  shadow  the  sunlight  that  beamed  o'er  our  home, 
And  some  long  cherished  idol,  like  autumn's  pale  leaf, 

Go  down  to  the  grave  in  its  beauty  and  bloom  : 
Or  those  whom  we  trusted  would  never  betray ; 

And  hearts  that  we  prized  as  the  truest  and  best, 
Grow  cold  and  forgetful,  and  friendship  decay 

We  thought  most  undying  —  this  is  not  our  rest ! 

This  is  not  our  rest  —  youthful  dreamer,  awake  ! 

Believe  not  that  here,  thy  best  moments  are  given : 
The  hopes  that  are  brightest  will  soonest  forsake,  — 

Earth  holds  not  abliss  that  should  lure  thee  from  heaven : 
The  song  may  resound,  and  the  festal  be  gay, 

And  beauty  seem  flattered,  or  idly  caressed  : 
But  the  world  and  its  fashion  are  passing  away — 

Awake,  youthful  dreamer,  this  is  not  thy  rest ! 

This  is  not  thy  rest  —  though  a  voice  may  be  near, 
In  some  tranquil  hour,  to  whisper  of  peace  ; 

To  promise  that  life  shall  be  sunny  and  clear, 
And  all  the  wild  storms  of  adversity  cease  ; 


OUR      REST.  115 

That  pleasure  shall  wait  on  thy  steps  evermore,  — 
And  thou  wilt  be  always  as  happy  and  blest,  — 
'Tis  a  voice  that  hath  cheated  fond  bosoms  before, 
O  trust  not  the  syren,  this  is  not  thy  rest ! 

This  is  not  our  rest  —  thou  on  manhood's  broad  track, 

Or  toiling  in  age  for  life's  perishing  things, 
From  its  fatal  allurements  in  season  turn  back, 

And  plume  for  the  skies,  wearied  spirit,  thy  wings  : 
Each  day  brings  its  trials,  vexations,  and  pain, 

And  vainly  thou  dream' st  of  a  future  more  blest ; 
Alas  !  it  but  pictures  the  present  again  — 

Look  upward,  look  upward,  this  is  not  thy  rest ! 

This  is  not  our  rest  —  far  beyond  the  dark  tomb, 

It  rises  in  beauty  more  bright  than  the  day  ; 
Its  sun  never  darkened,  and  fadeless  the  bloom, 

That  smiles  in  a  region  which  knows  not  decay. 
There,  the  River  of  Life,  its  pure  waters  will  roll, 

By  the  mansions  of  glory,  prepared  for  the  blest, 
And  there  with  the  Saviour,  oh !  then  will  the  soul, 

Enjoy  an  eternal,  unchangeable  rest. 


116 


MINISTERING    SPIRITS, 


And  do  ye  still,  on  wings  of  love  and  light, 

Oh  !  heavenly  guardians,  hover  round  our  way  ? 
To  shield  from  danger  creatures  of  a  day, 

Do  ye  abandon  realms  all  fair  and  bright  ? 

Ye  are  about  our  daily  paths  unseen, 

Our  darkened  eyes  your  glory  may  not  scan  — 
Breathe  still  your  sweet  monitions  unto  man, 

Ye  of  celestial  form  and  holy  mien. 

Still  watch  above  us  in  our  lot  of  care, 
Be  infancy  to  your  protection  given, 

Teach  manhood  meekly  life's  sharp  ills  to  bear, 
And  to  the  aged,  bring  sweet  dreams  of  heaven ; 

And  be  your  last  employ,  at  Death's  stern  nod, 

To  waft  the  ransomed  spirit  back  to  God. 


117 


THE    ABSENT    COMMUNICANT. 


The  holy  feast  is  spread  again, 

And  all  are  gathered  there, 
And  to  the  altar's  foot  they  press 

With  reverence  and  with  prayer, 
Young  heads  of  bright  and  sunny  locks, 

And  those  of  silvery  hair: 
Age,  youth,  and  beauty,  side  by  side, 
Commemorate  the  crucified. 


118  THE      ABSENT     COMMUNICANT. 

I  hear  in  thought  the  organ's  tone, 

Its  rich  harmonious  swell, 
The  plaintive  hymn  breathed  forth  again, 

Of  Jesus'  love  to  tell, 
The  pastor's  voice  of  kind  regard, 

Beloved  so  long  and  well, 
Then  see  the  sacred  symbols  given, 
And  mortals  eat  the  bread  of  heaven. 

In  thought,  alas  !  in  thought  alone,  — 

I  may  not  kneel  to-day, 
Among  that  band  of  worshippers, 

Or  in  that  temple  pray, 
Or  taste  with  them  that  blessed  food, 

Strength  for  life's  pilgrim  way  : 
The  holy  feast  is  spread,  and  prayer 
Ascends,  but  one  is  absent  there. 

The  church  bells  have  been  ringing  out 

With  their  enlivening  tone, 
And  yet  within  my  chamber's  bound, 

All  silent  and  alone, 


THE      ABSENT      COMMUNICANT.  119 

I  sit  to  muse  upon  the  past, 
The  hours  for  ever  flown, 
When  through  the  sacred  aisle  I  trod, 
To  bow  within  the  house  of  GOD. 

And  as  the  weary  hart  doth  pant, 

For  water-courses  fair, 
I  long  to  reach  the  holy  fane, 

And  pay  my  homage  there, 
And  with  GOD'S  people  kneel  me  down, 

Forgetting  earthly  care  : 
It  may  not  be  —  my  heart  be  still, 
And  bend  thee  to  Jehovah's  will. 

Thou,  who  in  desert  mountains  lone, 

Did'st  hie  where  none  might  see, 
To  pour  thy  soul  in  secret  prayer, 

And  bend  the  suppliant  knee, 
And  ask  thy  Father's  pardoning  love 

For  guilty  ones  like  me  ;  — 
Give  me  thy  presence,  though  alone 
I  bow  before  thy  glorious  throne. 


120  THE      ABSENT      COMMUNICANT 

Saviour,  be  with  me  :  may  thy  love 

Light  up  my  path  to-day, 
And  may  thy  Spirit's  power  divine 

My  every  action  sway  ; 
Bless  thou  this  sacred  Sabbath  time, 

Although  alone  I  pray, 
And  lift  my  soul,  and  cheer  my  heart, 
When  from  thy  people  far  apart. 


121 


STANZAS, 


SUGGESTED  BY  THE   DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
REV.  DR.  SCHROEDER. 


I  saw  a  lovely  flower 

Upon  a  slender  spray, 
But  a  rude  blast  came,  with  sudden  power, 

And  swept  its  bloom  away  : 
It  bent  beneath  the  blow, 

And  its  leaves  to  earth  were  given, 
But  the  bitter  wind  that  had  laid  it  low, 

Bore  its  fragrance  unto  heaven. 
16 


122  STANZAS. 

I  marked  a  rainbow's  form, 

When  the  summer  shower  went  by, 
Born  of  the  sunbeam  and  the  storm  — 

Spanning  the  eastern  sky  : 
And  I  gazed  upon  the  sight, 

Till  the  glorious  arch  was  riven, 
And  its  varied  hues  of  gorgeous  light 

Melted  away  in  heaven. 

I  watched  a  merry  bird, 

Building  its  fairy  nest, 
And  the  glossy  leaves  by  its  wings  were  stirred, 

Round  that  little  spot  of  rest ; 
And  I  deemed  its  gushing  song 

Would  still  to  mine  ear  be  given, 
But  it  plumed  its  wing  for  the  skies  ere  long, 

And  soared,  and  sang,  in  heaven. 

I  gazed  on  a  gentle  star, 

That  was  bright  in  the  evening  sky, 
And  thought,  how  it  smiled  in  its  home  afar, 

When  watched  by  a  mortal's  eye ; 


STANZAS.  123 

But  the  tempest  gathered  fast, 

And  wildly  the  clouds  were  driven, 

And  the  star  was  lost,  as  their  dark  folds  passed, 
But  I  knew  it  was  still  in  heaven. 

So,  like  that  lovely  flower, 

And  like  that  rainbow's  light, 
And  like  the  bird  of  the  summer  bower, 

And  the  glittering  star  of  night ; 
Hath  thy  loved  one,  in  life's  pure  spring, 

From  thy  fond  embraces  riven, 
Been  borne  away  on  an  angel's  wing, 

To  dwell  in  the  light  of  heaven. 


124 


ORDINATION. 


High  upon  Zion's  holy  walls, 

Thy  place  and  portion  hence  will  be ; 
It  is  Jehovah's  voice  which  calls, 

To  gird  thee  with  His  panoply. 

Sleep  not  upon  thine  honoured  post  — 
Bear  thou  an  eagle's  piercing  eye  — 

Blow  loud  the  trumpet  'mid  the  host, 
And  warn  them  that  the  foe  is  nigh. 


ORDINATION.  125 

Unfurl  the  blood-stained  banner  free, 

To  float  above  thee  far  and  wide  ; 
And  let  thy  watchword  ever  be, 

In  good  or  ill,  "  Christ  crucified  !" 

Watch,  for  thou  know'st  not  of  the  time 
Thy  Lord  will  come  with  mighty  power  — 

Whether  at  day's  unsullied  prime, 
At  early  dawn,  or  midnight  hour. 

Go  forth  undaunted  —  ever  bear 

A  fearless  heart,  when  danger  springs  ; 

For  Oh,  remember,  thou  dost  wear 
The  armour  of  the  King  of  Kings  ! 

Fight  the  good  fight  —  thy  steady  aim 
Shall  make  the  vengeful  foe  despair ; 

Go  forth  in  thy  Redeemer's  name, 

And  be  thy  weapons  Faith  and  Prayer. 

Go  forth  —  fulfil  the  work  begun  — 
Forsaking  earth,  and  earth's  renown  — 

Then  rise  from  death,  the  conquest  won, 
To  wear  the  victor's  fadeless  crown. 


126 


CHRISTMAS. 


"This  is  time,  when  most  divine  to  hear, 

The  voice  of  Adoration  rouses  me, 

As  with  a  cherub's  trump  ;  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  with  the  choir,  I  seem  to  view 

The  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

Who  hymned  the  song  of  Peace  o'er  Bethlehem's  fields." 

COLERIDGE. 


A  star  hangs  bright  o'er  Bethlehem's  vale  — 
Angelic  voices  wake  the  morn  ; 

And  shepherds  hear  the  wond'rous  tale, 
Jesus,  the  promised  child,  is  born. 

The  harps  of  heaven  on  earth  are  strung : 

Good  will  to  men,  by  seraphs  sung. 


CHRISTMAS.  127 

They  seek  the  babe  —  no  regal  state  — 
No  princely  pomp  are  His  the  while  ; 

On  Him  no  bright-robed  courtiers  wait, 
But  humble  peasants  watch  His  smile  : 

The  magi  kneel,  and  shepherds  bend, 

To  Him  whom  angels  did  attend. 


He  has  resigned  a  crown  of  light  — 
Laid  all  his  glorious  vestments  by  — 

And  shrouding  in  this  world  of  night 
The  splendors  of  the  Deity, 

Hath  come  to  succor,  save,  and  bless, 

His  creatures  in  their  wretchedness. 


Saviour,  again  we  hail  the  day, 
When  brightly  rose  thy  natal  star ; 

And  join  the  angel's  heaven-taught  lay, 
Which  in  the  azure  fields  afar  — 

The  music  of  celestial  spheres, 

Rang  on  the  shepherd's  listening  ears. 


128  CHRISTMAS. 

And  lo,  from  Nature's  hand  we  bear 
An  offering  for  thy  holy  shrine  ; 

With  evergreen,  and  garlands  fair, 
High  arch  and  lofty  pillar  twine  : 

And  joyfully  our  paeans  raise, 

Redeemer,  Saviour,  in  Thy  praise. 


And  though  no  bright,  peculiar  gem, 
Is  hung  upon  our  midnight  sky  — 

Like  that  which  shone  o'er  Bethlehem, 
What  time  the  heavenly  hosts  were  nigh 

Thy  Word  our  polar  star  shall  be, 

Guiding  us  on,  to  heaven  and  Thee. 


129 


HAPPINESS. 


Thou  hast  no  earthly  home,  thou  radiant  guest, 
Brief  is  thy  sojourn  with  the  sons  of  clay; 

Thy  smiles,  like  parting  sunbeams,  scarcely  rest 
Upon  our  path,  ere  they  have  passed  away : 
It  is  in  vain  we  ask  their  farther  stay,  — 

It  may  not  be,  thou  hast  no  dwelling  here, 

Thou  art  a  winged  angel  hovering  near, 
But  seldom  stooping  to  our  clouded  way. 

Where  flaming  cherubim  for  ever  swell 
High-pealing  anthems  on  the  ambient  air, 

And  harps  by  seraphs  tuned,  for  ever  tell 
Immanuel's  love  and  glory  —  Spirit,  there, 

There  is  thy  home,  thy  bright  and  true  abode, 

Only  a  lingerer  here,  thy  birth-place  is  with  God, 
17 


130 


A    LAMENT. 


INSCRIBED     TO     THE      MEMORY     OF     L.      A.      C. 


"Youth  and  the  opening  rose, 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee ;  but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


Gone  hence  to  thy  rest  —  in  a  far  brighter  land 

Thou  hast  entered  the  mansions  of  glory  and  bliss  ; 
In  that  radiant  clime,  with  the  seraphim  band, 

Thou  forgettest  the  thorns  and  the  shadows  of  this : 
Oh,  who  can  deplore  thee,  or  ask  thy  recall, 

Thus  early  unfettered,  for  ever  made  free, 
Or  wish  thee  again  in  the  world's  bitter  thrall  — 

We  may  weep  for  ourselves,  but  we  must  not  for  thee. 


A    LAMENT.  131 

Thy  blue  eye  is  dim,  there  is  dust  on  thy  brow, 

The  rose  hue  of  life,  it  hath  faded  away ; 
How  peacefully  dear  one  thou  slumberest  now, 

Nought,  nought  can  awake  thee,— nor  darkness,  nor  day : 
The  heart  that  was  beating  with  kindness  alone, 

Is  still  —  all  its  throbbings  for  ever  are  o'er, 
And  the  voice  that  we  loved  for  its  sweetness  of  tone, 

Alas  !  we  may  list  to  its  music  no  more. 

How  short  was  thy  sojourn,  how  brief  was  thy  stay, 

A  summer  of  beauty,  a  season  of  love  — 
Bright  forms  that  we  knew  not  have  called  thee  away, 

And  wings  that  we  heard  not,  have  borne  thee  above  : 
Thou  wert  snatched  from  the  sorrows  that  haply  may 
throw 

Their  withering  blight  over  life's  riper  years  ; 
And  in  regions  immortal,  thou  never  can'st  know 

The  heart's  weary  pining,  the  eye's  bitter  tears. 

And  gladly  the  springtime  shall  waken  the  flowers, 
And  summer  clothe  brightly  with  blossoms  each  tree  ; 

But  the  joy  of  the  sunbeams,  the  calm  of  the  hours, 
Will  come  not  again  gentle  sleeper  to  thee  : 


132  A    LAMENT. 

The  earth  in  its  robes  of  delight  will  be  dressed, 

And  the  soft  winds  may  sigh  o'er  thy  place  of  repose  ; 

Thou  wilt  heed  not  their  whisper,  nor  wake  from  thy  rest, 
To  greet  the  young  lily  and  welcome  the  rose. 

But  as  the  soft  moonbeams  when  shed  o'er  the  sea, 

Will  tinge  with  their  lustre  the  wave's  tossing  foam, 
So,  lost  one,  will  come  the  fond  memory  of  thee, 

To  throw  its  pure  light  o'er  the  grief  of  thy  home  : 
So,  blessed  recollections  shall  ever  arise, 

To  soothe  the  deep  sorrow  that  pierces  each  breast, 
And  Faith  shall  point  up  to  thy  home  in  the  skies, 

And  Love  shall  rejoice  thou  art  safe  and  at  rest. 

Yes,  safe  and  at  rest  —  not  a  shade  to  o'ercast 

The  light  of  thy  soul  in  that  radiant  sphere, 
Life's  brief  journey  over,  its  perils  all  passed, 

Thou  art  basking  in  sunshine  celestial  and  clear  : 
Could  thy  voice  reach  us  now  from  that  far  distant  shore, 

We  should  list  to  the  notes  of  an  angel's  sweet  strain, 
To  say  when  a  few  fleeting  seasons  are  o'er, 

In  gladness  and  light,  we  shall  meet  thee  again. 


133 


PROSPERITY. 


All  seek  thee  —  from  the  palace  walls  of  state, 
To  the  low  cottage  where  the  poor  man  bides, 

The  sons  of  earth  for  unseen  blessings  wait, 
And  ask,  in  each  estate,  some  gift  beside. 

We  trust  to  thee  for  happiness,  and  deem 
We  shall  know  all  of  bliss  in  finding  thee  — 
Believe  not,  fortune's  favours  oft  may  be 

As  vague  and  shadowy  as  a  midnight  dream  : 

Ah  !  we  should  humbly  bask  beneath  thy  smile, 
For  thou  may'st  prove  a  fatal  boon  when  given 

Under  thy  mask  the  tempter  may  beguile, 

Luring  the  soul  from  virtue  and  from  heaven  ; 

Thou  hold'st  a  poisoned  chalice  to  the  lip, 

Sweet  to  the  taste,  yet  they  may  die  who  sip. 


134 


ADVERSITY. 


Thou  art  a  harsh  instructor  —  yet  by  thee 

We  learn  important  lessons  —  thou  dost  teach 
How  frail  and  fleeting  earthly  hopes  may  be, 

How  oft  the  goal  recedes  we  strive  to  reach  : 
Thine  is  a  form  of  darkness,  and  we  turn 

Heart-sick  and  weary  from  the  sad  embrace, 
Would  fly  thy  dreaded  presence  ever  stern, 

And  trembling,  hide  us  from  thy  frowning  face. 
But  through  the  world's  dim  pathway,  thy  cold  hand 

Is  leading  to  a  home  of  joy  and  peace, 
And  on  the  borders  of  that  better  land, 

Will  thy  sharp  ministry  for  ever  cease, 
And  we  shall  bless  thee,  safely  landed  there, 
And  know  in  heaven  how  good  thy  bitter  teachings 
were. 


135 


TO    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    A    CHILD. 


;  Thou  art  so  life-like,  speak  to  me." 


Thy  lip  hath  a  curl  of  winning  grace, 

And  smiles  are  lighting  thy  cherub  face, 

And  thine  eyes  beam  forth  with  a  cunning  glee, 

Meet  for  the  features  of  infancy  ; 

And  thy  silken  tresses  in  beauty  fall 

Round  thy  temples  fair,  like  a  coronal : 

How  much  like  life  !    Can  it  really  be 

Only  the  canvass  that  smiles  on  me  ? 


136  TO     THE     PORTRAIT      OF     A     CHILD. 

Oh  !  well  hath  the  painter's  skill  portrayed 
Thy  fairy  figure  in  light  and  shade  ! 
So  well,  that  I  list  for  thy  laughing  tone, 
And  look  for  thy  fingers  to  grasp  my  own, 
And  hear  thy  wishes  for  some  gay  toy 
In  thy  gentle  accents,  my  bright-haired  boy  ! 
Wilt  thou  not  bound  in  thy  joyousness 
To  my  open  arms,  and  my  fond  caress  ? 

Picture,  thou  tellest  of  beauty  bright, 
Lip  like  the  ruby,  and  eye  of  light  — 
Cheek  of  the  rose-tint,  and  forehead  fair, 
And  a  buoyant  spirit  unchained  by  care. 
Boy  —  as  thy  years  roll  swiftly  on, 
When  childhood's  visions  and  hopes  have  flown, 
Look  on  thine  image,  and  strive  to  be, 
Guileless  and  pure  as  in  infancy. 


137 


TEN   YEARS  AGO. 


"  Too  soon,  Oh!  all  too  soon  will  come 

En  later  years  the  spell, 
Touching  with  changing  hues  the  path 

Where  once  but  sunlight  fell." 

FRANCES  S.  OSOOOD. 


Ten  years  ago  !  a  weary  age  it  seems 
To  look  ten  years  beyond  the  present  hour ; 
But  when  far  down  the  lengthened  hill  of  Time, 
We  cast  a  backward  glance  at  some  far  point 
Our  pilgrim  feet  ten  years  before  had  left  — 
How  easily  the  retrospective  eye 
May  span  the  pathway  :  —  but  a  moment's  flight 
Hath  marked  the  parted  hours,  and  memory  asks, 
Half  cheated  of  her  power,  the  scattered  leaves, 
Where,  with  recording  pencil,  she  hath  writ 
The  pains  or  pleasures  of  that  by-gone  time. 

18 


138  TEN    YEARS    AGO. 

Ten  years  ago!  it  seems  but  yesterday! 

And  I  remember  then,  a  happy  girl, 

Upon  whose  face  the  world  had  cast  no  care, 

Stood  at  the  altar-side,  and  gave  her  heart 

With  all  its  hoarded  wealth  of  tenderness 

To  one  who  long  had  loved  her.     They  had  grown 

Together  like  young  plants  ;  and  when  the  world 

Deemed  them  as  children,  or  spoke  jestingly 

Of  that,  which,  to  their  young  untroubled  hearts 

Was  light,  and  dew,  and  sunshine  —  they  had  vowed 

With  the  deep  fervor  of  a  deathless  love, 

To  wander  hand  in  hand  through  life's  long  way, 

To  launch  their  bark  together  on  the  waves, 

And  to  one  haven  steer  their  onward  course. 

Little  they  recked  of  peril  and  of  storm  — 

They  had  exchanged  that  high  and  holy  faith 

Which  angels  bless,  and  with  a  perfect  trust 

In  all  the  fairy  promises  of  Hope, 

They  deemed  an  angel's  wing  would  shelter  them 

From  the  rude  billow's  chiding. 

They  were  wed. 
I  do  remember  that  bright  morning  hour 


TEN    YEARS    AGO.  139 

Of  sunny  May,  and  the  fair  company 

Of  bridal  guests ;  and  still,  methinks,  I  hear 

Voices  of  gratulation,  and  kind  words 

From  loving  hearts,  and  a  fond  blessing  breathed 

From  lips  parental,  as  together  passed 

That  youthful  pair  adown  the  sacred  aisle  : 

So  blessed  to  find  their  dream  of  joy  fulfilled, 

They  asked  no  boon  beside. 

And  o'er  them  rolled, 

From  that  auspicious  hour,  ten  happy  years. 
How  swift,  when  joy  hath  winged  them,  do  they  fly  — 
How  slowly  creep  along  their  destined  course, 
When  leaden-footed  Sorrow  drags  them  on. 
But  with  the  beings  of  my  history, 
The  sunlit  hours  on  golden  pinions  flew. 
There  were  no  clouds  to  dim  their  tranquil  sky  — 
No  storms  to  fright  them  —  no  wild  waves  to  dash 
The  fragile  bark  whose  helm  Affection  ruled  ;  — 
And  when  a  blue-eyed  babe  upon  them  smiled 
In  its  young  beauty,  like  a  bud  of  heaven, 
Life's  cup  of  blessedness  seemed  brimmed  for  them, 
'Till  the  pure  sparkling  waters  must  o'erflow. 


140  TEN    YEARS    AGO. 

Ten  years  !  ten  years  !  all  numbered  with  the  past ! 

And  the  revolving  months  again  have  brought 

That  nuptial  day.     But  where  are  now  the  hearts 

So  closely  linked  ?     They  have  been  parted  ! 

He  is  reposing  by  the  church's  side, 

And  she  is  widowed.     In  her  lonely  home, 

With  her  eye  fixed  upon  the  weeping  clouds, 

Which  seem  to  give  their  tears  in  sympathy, 

And  her  fair  orphan  boy  beside  her  knee, 

She  muses  on  the  past  —  recalls  fair  forms, 

And  faded  scenes,  and  days  of  happiness, 

And  looks  of  love,  and  words  of  holy  trust  — 

And  asks  her  heart  if  it  indeed  be  true 

That  she  has  lost  them  all. 

A  widow's  grief ! 

There  are  no  words  can  speak  it.     He  who  gave 
A  language  unto  man,  gave  him  no  power 
To  syllable  such  sorrow.     They  had  loved 
Too  ardently  for  those  whom  death  must  sever — 
Loved,  'till  the  full  o'erladen  heart  had  throbbed 
With  all  its  weight  of  untold  tenderness. 
He  had  been  more  than  all  the  world  to  her, 


TEN    YEARS    AGO.  141 

The  idol  in  the  temple  of  her  soul, 

The  radiant  star  that  in  her  cloudless  heaven 

Beamed  with  a  light  above  its  fellow  stars. 

She  had  hung  proudly  on  his  gifted  words, 

When  others  deemed  she  scarce  had  heard  their  flow, 

Or  drank,  as  from  a  fount  of  purest  wave, 

The  gushing  love  poured  on  her  ear  alone. 

Ah !  she  had  prized  the  gift  too  far  above 

The  bounteous  Giver — garnered  up  her  love 

In  a  clay  casket  —  leaned  upon  a  reed 

Frail  as  a  willow-twig,  yet  breaking,  pierced 

The  heart  which  clung  to  it.     And  God  had  known, 

How  at  an  altar  consecrate  to  Him, 

She  burned  sweet  incense  for  a  mortal  shrine, 

And  now  to  draw  her  spirit  heavenward, 

Severed  the  golden  chain  which  bound  her  here, 

And  placed  her  idol  nearer  to  Himself, 

To  lure  her  onward  to  the  better  land. 


142 


IN    MEMORY    OF    HENRY    S.    CRAIG.* 


The  fair  earth  looketh  dim  —  the  golden  sun 

Gleams  not,  methinks,  so  brightly  as  of  yore, 
And  each  familiar  thing  he  looks  upon, 

With  a  strange  gloom  is  darkly  shadowed  o'er  : 
But  nature  is  not  changed  —  unto  our  eyes 

Alone  she  seemeth  sad,  for  thou  art  gone, 
Whose  smile  was  sunshine  for  our  wintry  skies, 

Whose  words  were  music,  and  whose  gentle  tone 
Of  love  or  kindness,  came  upon  the  ear 
Like  the  pure  gushing  of  a  fountain  clear. 


*  Beloved  and  respected  by  all  who  knew  him,  perished  in  the  burning  of  the  steamboat 
Lexington,  13th  January,  1840.  The  above  lines  were  written  at  the  time,  but  never 
before  published. 


IN    MEMORY    OP    HENRY    S.    CRAIG.  143 

Life  was  all  bright  before  thee  — who  could  deem 

It's  fairy  promises  would  fade  so  soon  ? 
Fond  hopes  have  perished  like  the  rainbow's  gleam  — 

A  sun  obscured  at  its  high  hour  of  noon  : 
Age  had  not  stamped  his  furrows  on  thy  brow, 

Nor  strewed  his  silvery  threads  in  thy  dark  hair  : 
Still  wore  thy  manly  cheek  its  wonted  glow, 

Unwrinkled  by  the  withering  touch  of  care  : 
Thine  eye  yet  flashed  with  all  the  fire  of  youth, 
And  on  thy  lip  dwelt  stern,  unbending  truth. 


Oh!  there  is  darkness  o'er  thy  home,  and  tears, 

Deep,  burning  tears  of  heart-felt  agony, 
As  memory  brings  again  thine  earlier  years, 

Oh  !  loved  and  lost  one,  still  are  shed  for  thee  : 
Thy  mother  for  her  first-born  bows  in  dust, 

Her  stay  in  widowhood,  her  pride  and  joy  ; 
Recalls  thy  childhood's  time  of  love  and  trust, 

And  wails  thy  manhood's  glory  fall'n  for  ay  : 
And  thy  young  sisters,  who  will  guard  as  thou, 
Their  orphan  heads  from  every  evil  now  ? 


144  IN    MEMORY    OP    HENRY    S.    CRAIG. 

But  there  is  one  who  in  her  girlhood's  hour, 

Gave  up  her  sweet  affections  unto  thee, 
How  she  lies  smitten  like  a  withered  flower, 

When  autumn  winds  have  swept  its  native  tree  : 
Her  idol  in  the  dust  hath  fallen  low  — 

And  the  white  wreath  that  twined  amid  her  hair, 
When  at  thy  side  a  few  short  months  ago 

She  stood  a  happy  bride,  so  young,  so  fair,  — 
Is  changed,  for  what  ?  Alas  !  that  pallid  brow, 
Wears  the  dark  shrouding  of  the  widowed  now. 


Oh  !  who  shall  speak  her  anguish  !  who  may  tell 

The  misery  that  clouds  her  sunniest  years  ! 
Who  shall  e'er  fathom  pure  affections  well, 

Or  dry  the  fountain  of  her  bitter  tears  ! 
What  unto  her  are  spring's  first  fragrant  flowers, 

Or  all  the  charms  of  summer's  blushing  day  ? 
Will  she  not  read  the  past,  in  such  bright  hours, 

And  hear  thy  voice  in  every  wind's  soft  play  V 
Will  not  the  smiling  earth,  the  balmy  air, 
Whisper  of  moments  blessed,  when  thou  wert  there  ? 


IN    MEMORY    OF    HENRY    S.    CRAIG.  14 

Yes,  they  will  miss  thee,  unto  whom  belong 

The  ever  dear  remembrance  of  thy  worth  — 
They  will  lament  thee,  when  the  heartless  throng 

Have  quite  forgotten  thou  wert  once  of  earth ; 
At  morning's  prime,  at  daylight's  dewy  close, 

When  Summer  flings  her  bloom  on  field  and  tree  ; 
When  Autumn's  hand  her  gorgeous  livery  throws 

O'er  hill  and  forest,  they  will  dream  of  thee. 
In  the  lone  midnight,  when  the  world  is  still, 
How  will  thine  image  each  sad  bosom  thrill. 

Heart-stricken  mourners  !  mother,  widowed  wife  ! 

And  ye,  fond  sisters,  still  your  tears  restrain ; 
"  He  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth"  —  in  the  life 

Beyond,  immortal,  ye  shall  meet  again : 
Press  on,  press  on,  to  that  eternal  shore, 

Where  the  tossed  barque  at  last  in  safety  moors  ; 
God  to  your  arms  the  lost  one  will  restore, 

And  love,  celestial  love,  be  ever  yours. 
Then  turn  from  earth,  with  its  o'ershadowing  care, 
And  fix  your  hearts  in  heaven,  for  he  is  there. 

19 


146 


TO   A  FRIEND   AT   PARTING. 


Think  of  me  —  when  ? 
Just  at  the  gentle  twilight  hour, 
When  the  dew  is  falling  on  leaf  and  flower, 
When  birds  to  their  quiet  nests  have  gone, 
And  the  summer  night  comes  softly  on, 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me  —  when  ? 
As  thou  art  roving  through  pleasant  glades, 
Or  wandering  'mid  the  deep  forest  shades, 
Gazing  on  flower,  and  field,  and  tree, 
Let  thy  thoughts  turn  for  awhile  to  me  — 

Think  of  me  then. 


TO     A    FRIEND    AT     PARTING.  147 

Think  of  me  —  when  ? 

As  some  sweet  strain  we  have  loved  to  hear, 
Comes  with  a  pathos  deep  to  thine  ear, 
And  a  soft  note  over  thy  senses  flung, 
Brings  back  the  time  when  that  lay  was  sung, 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me  —  when  ? 
In  the  early  hours  of  the  summer  morn, 
When  no  rude  sounds  on  the  breeze  are  borne, 
When  all  is  balmy,  and  sweet,  and  still, 
And  the  mists  are  rising  from  stream  and  hill, 

Think  of  me  then. 

Think  of  me  —  when  ? 
At  that  lone  hour,  when  on  bended  knee, 
Thou  art  breathing  a  prayer  to  the  Deity, 
That  all  whom  thou  lovest  he  may  defend, 
Oh,  ask  some  boon  for  thy  distant  friend  — 

Think  of  me  then. 


148 


WINTER    TWILIGHT. 


Brief  hour  for  thought!  the  dark  and  wintry  day 
Is  deepening  into  night,  though  no  pale  star 

To  guide  the  traveller  with  its  timorous  ray 
Yet  glimmers  in  the  purple  depths  afar. 

Darkness  comes  stealing  on  ;  —  from- labor  free, 
The  weary  woodman  seeks  his  cottage  door, 
Where  mirthful  children  on  the  sanded  floor 

Leap  at  his  coming,  and  press  round  his  knee. 

From  distant  casements  lights  are  twinkling  now, 
Where  busy  matrons  still  the  needle  ply, 
Or  some  pale  student  strains  the  anxious  eye, 

And  bends  o'er  classic  page  with  thoughtful  brow. 
Stir  we  the  fire  ;  seek  fancy's  wild  domain, 
And  rear  some  airy  fabric's  dizzy  height  again. 


149 


PAST    AND  PRESENT. 


Can  this  be  the  creature  of  laughter  and  light, 

Who,  twenty  short  summers  ago, 
O'er  the  clouds  of  my  spirit  threw  colours  as  bright 

As  heaven's  own  beautiful  bow? 

Can  this  be  the  maid  of  the  merry  blue  eye, 
That  chained  the  young  heart  in  my  breast, 

'Till  it  throbbed  with  delight  if  her  form  flitted  by, 
Or  came  in  bright  dreams  to  my  rest  ?  — 


150  PAST    AND    PRESENT. 

Who  roamed  o'er  the  green  with  a  fairy-like  trip, 
Or  so  featly  danced  over  the  dew,  — 

While  laughter  seemed  born  on  her  roseate  lip, 
And  smiles  were  the  breath  that  she  drew?  —  " 

Whose  voice  had  the  gladness  and  mirth  of  a  rill, 

The  sweetness  of  musical  birds,  — ' 
And  the  ear  and  the  heart  were  made  captive  at  will, 

By  the  sound  of  her  soft-flowing  words  ?  — 

How  changed ;  —  yet  methinks  there's  a  lovelier  light 
That  beams  from  her  gentle  blue  eye  — 

A  something  more  holy,  more  tenderly  bright, 
Than  lit  them  in  seasons  gone  by. 

The  rich  golden  curls  that  once  shaded  her  brow 

Are  parted  with  matronly  grace, 
And  a  few  silver  threads  intertwined  with  them  now, 

Usurp  all  too  quickly  their  place. 

She  is  changed  —  but  long  vigils  in  weariness  kept, 

Her  lily-like  paleness  bespeak, 
And  eyes  will  grow  dim  that  too  often  have  wept, 

And  grief  leave  its  trace  on  the  cheek. 


PAST    AND    PRESENT.  151 

For  sorrow's  dark  pall  o'er  her  life  hath  been  cast, 

The  life  once  so  happy  and  gay ; 
And  idols,  as  dear  as  the  life-blood,  have  passed 

From  her  heart's  inmost  temple  away. 

She  is  changed  —  the  rare  beauty,  my  pride  and  de- 
light, 

Like  a  blossom  too  soon  hath  decayed, 
But  her  soul,  a  pure  jewel  transcendently  bright, 

Still  shines,  though  the  casket  may  fade. 

Sweet  wife  of  my  bosom,  though  years  have  flown  o'er, 
Since  the  moment  I  called  thee  my  bride, 

Yet  the  love  that  we  cherished  so  fondly  of  yore, 
Shall  still  keep  me  close  to  thy  side. 

Shall  still  every  thought  of  my  being  engage, 

To  prize  all  thy  goodness  and  truth, 
And  still  will  I  love  thee  as  fondly  in  age, 

As  fondly  I  loved  thee  in  youth. 


152 


TO   A   PICTURE 


OF  PIERUE  DECOKNILLAN,  GRAND  MASTER  OF  THE  KNIGHTS  HOSPITALLERS,  IS 
A  PAINTER'S  STUDIO. 


What  dost  thou  here,  old  knight? 
With  thine  armour  on,  and  thy  casque  laid  by  ; 
To  the  field  !  to  the  field  !  where  the  valiant  fight, 

And  brave  men  meet  to  die. 

This  is  no  place  for  thee  ! 
The  sound  of  the  bugle  should  greet  thine  ear  ; 
Hie,  hie  where  thy  banner  is  waving  free  ! 

Why  art  thou  lingering  here  ? 


TO    A    PICTURE.  153 

They  wait  thee  to  lead  them  on, 
They  list  thy  war-note  by  hill  and  stream  : 
Hath  the  spirit  that  nerved  thee  to  battle  flown  ? 

Oh  !  wake  thee  from  thy  dream  ! 

Thou  phantom  of  the  past ! 
Long  hast  thou  slumbered  in  dull  decay  : 
And  thy  comrades,  the  bravest,  the  best,  the  last, 

Have  passed  like  thee  away. 

Vainly  I  call  thee  now ! 

Thou  heed'st  not  a  moment  my  feeble  breath, 
Thine  eye  is  dim,  and  thy  noble  brow 

Pressed  by  the  hand  of  Death. 

Thy  clarion's  voice  is  still; 
And  thy  banner  furled,  to  the  moth  is  given, 
No  more  shall  its  folds  at  thy  sovereign  will, 

Float  in  the  breeze  of  heaven. 

All  is  alike  forgot ! 

Thou,  as  do  others,  have  laid  thee  down, 
Thy  deeds  of  valor  remembering  not, 

And  deaf  to  all  renown. 
20 


154  TO    A    PICTURE. 

Thou  art  but  imaged  here, 
For  time  o'er  thy  spirit  hath  no  more  sway  : 
Thou  hast  finished  thy  bright  and  high  career, 

And  passed  to  thy  doom  away. 

And  only  a  glorious  art, 
May  bear  thee  back  by  it  wonderous  power, 
And  methinks  it  whispers  the  human  heart, 

"So  brief  is  glory's  hour." 


155 


JUNE. 


Come  with  thy  rose-wreaths,  fair  and  laughing  June  ! 

Fling  thy  rich  odors  upon  every  gale ; 
Bid  the  blue  waters  wake  their  blithest  tune, 

And  joy,  and  light,  and  melody  prevail. 
Thou  hast  a  store  of  treasures,  and  with  thee 

We  look  for  all  things  lovely  :  butterflies 

Flit  like  winged  jewels  'neath  thy  sunny  skies, 
And  roam,  with  tones  of  music,  bird  and  bee. 
Thou  art  the  loveliest  of  the  sisters  three  — 

Summer's  most  beauteous  child !     Oh,  still  delay, 

Fairest  of  months !  thy  parting ;  fondly  stay, 
And  pour  thy  radiant  smiles  on  lake  and  lea  : 

Bear  not  from  earth  thy  blessed  gifts  so  soon ; 

Stay,  stay  thy  flight,  oh  fair  and  laughing  June  ! 


156  JUNE. 

I  would  be  with  thee  on  the  sunny  hills, 

And  by  the  streams  would  linger,  as  they  flow 
With  their  perpetual  music,  sweet  and  low  : 

And  where,  in  light,  leap  out  the  shining  rills, 

Like  chains  of  liquid  diamonds,  I  would  be  ; 

Methinks  'twere  sweet  to  wander  far  and  free, 

Tempting  each  craggy  height  or  sylvan  shade  — 

A  loiterer,  where  the  mossy  banks,  inlaid 
With  Nature's  flowery  gems,  invite  repose  ; 

And  stealing  o'er  my  brow,  thy  breath  of  balm 
Might  lull  each  care  my  beating  bosom  knows, 

And  bid  the  tossing  waves  of  thought  be  calm  ; 
And  I  might  half  forget  life's  boding  ills, 
Roaming  with  thee  out  on  the  sunny  hills. 

Alas  !  it  may  not  be  ;  I  am  forbid 

By  a  stern  duty,  and  my  feet  must  press, 
Day  after  day,  in  toil  and  weariness, 

The  city's  streets  ;  while  in  my  heart  is  hid 

Strange,  passionate  yearnings  for  a  brighter  spot: 

My  childhood's  home  is  stealing  on  my  sight — 
In  native  loveliness  all  unforgot, 

Fancy  reveals  it.     Well  I  know,  the  blight 


JUNE.  157 

Of  time  has  dimmed  its  beauty ;  yet  to  me 
It  ever  rises  with  the  summer  day, 
Decked  by  thy  hand  in  fair  and  fresh  array  ; 

And  on  its  verdant  slopes  I  long  to  be, 
A  happy  child,  as  careless  and  as  gay, 
As  erst  in  thy  bright  reign  I  laughed  the  hours  away. 


158 


SONNET   TO   A   CHILD. 


Lovely  thou  art  as  earliest  buds  of  spring, 

And  fresh  as  glowing  summer's  opening  rose ; 

Fair  as  the  vale's  young  lily  blossoming, 

When,  'neath  the  sunbeam's  touch,  its  leaves  unclose. 

My  own  loved  child,  thou  art  a  sunny  gleam 
Lent  as  a  light  to  cheer  my  earthly  way  : 
Thy  fairy  footsteps  in  thy  bounding  play, 

And  thy  soft  tones,  delicious  music  seem. 

What  would  a  mother's  heart  not  ask  for  thee 
From  Him  who  gave  thee  in  thy  loveliness  ? 
Ever  around  thy  path,  to  shield,  to  bless, 

Beloved  one,  may  thy  heavenly  Guardian  be  : 

Thy  portion  here,  —  then  with  His  bright-robed  choir, 

Give  thee  an  angel's  wing,  a  seraph's  burning  lyre. 


159 


THE   OLD  ALBUM. 


I've  drawn  thee  from  thy  hiding-place, 

Relic  of  by-gone  days, 
Again  thy  gilded  leaves  to  trace, 

Thy  well-known  garb  to  praise  ; 
To  bring  thee  to  the  glaring  light, 

From  out  thy  silent  nook  ;  — 
Come,  tell  old  tales  of  moments  bright, 

Thou  long-neglected  book  ! 


160 


THE      OLD      ALBUM. 


How  well  I  know  thy  crimson  coat, 

So  garnished  o'er  with  gold  ! 
And  half  with  sorrow,  half  with  smiles, 

The  tarnished  robe  behold. 
And  fondly  I  recall  the  hour, 

When  first  I  saw  thee  He 
Affection's  gift,  all  glossy  bright, 

Beneath  my  'raptured  eye. 

And  first,  the  faded  lines  I  trace, 

Penned  by  a  gentle  hand  ; 
They  bring  to  me  the  fairest  face 

That  graced  a  youthful  band. 
Sweet  play-mate  of  my  earlier  years  — 

Companion  of  the  past ! 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  life  of  tears, 

In  happier  realms  at  last ! 

Again  I  turn  the  rustling  leaf: 
Who  comes  before  me  now, 

With  the  light  heart  that  mocked  at  grief 
The  fair,  unclouded  brow  ; 


THE     OLD      ALBUM.  161 

The  eye  that  flashed  with  Passion's  ray, 

Unalterably  bright  ?  — 
How  changed !  —  long  years  have  stolen  away 

That  wild,  fantastic  light. 

Ha  !  my  gay  cousin  !  —  thou  whose  mirth 

Was  never  on  the  wane  ! 
I  read  thy  sonnet,  till  I  deem 

Thou'rt  by  my  side  again, 
With  thy  wild  laughter  ringing  free, 

Thy  sly  and  merry  air  ! 
That  time  is  gone  ;  thy  manly  brow 

A  graver  look  doth  wear. 

What  fairy  fingers  held  the  pen 

That  traced  this  dainty  page  ? 
It  bears  the  date  of  other  years, 

And  seems  quite  pale  with  age. 
Ah  !  I  remember  me  of  one 

Just  then  become  a  bride  ; 
She  smiles  a  careful  matron  now, 

With  prattlers  at  her  side. 
21 


162  T1IBOLB     ALBUM. 

And  here  is  writ  a  blithesome  song, 

And  here  a  tender  lay  ; 
This  page  is  sad  enough,  I  ween, 

And  this  one  passing  gay. 
And  here  a  youthful  poet's  hand 

Placed  the  sweet  rhymes  he  wove  ; 
The  truant !  —  in  a  foreign  land 

He  sought  another  love. 

Thou  mak'st  me  sad,  thou  gilded  toy  ! 

And  as  I  gaze  on  thee, 
I  think  how  time  and  change  have  thrown 

Their  shadows  over  me  : 
The  flush  of  youth  has  vanished  now, 

Friends  severed  far  and  wide  ; 
In  curls  that  wave  on  many  a  brow, 

Time's  silvery  foot-marks  hide. 

Go  back  then  to  thy  silent  nook, 

Memento  of  the  past ! 
Thou  tell'st  a  tale,  my  much-loved  book, 

Of  years  that  flew  too  fast ; 


THE      OLD     ALBUM.  163 

And  read'st  a  lesson  to  my  heart, 

Perused  full  oft  before  : 
That  hopes  must  fade,  and  friends  must  part, 

Till  Life's  dark  day  is  o'er. 


164 


MARCH. 


Thou  art  a  rude  and  noisy  wight, 

Though  thou  bear'st  the  name  of  spring  ; 
And  the  wintery  winds  with  their  chilling  blight, 
That  we  thought  were  gone  to  the  realms  of  night, 
Come  back  on  thy  restless  wing. 

We  look  in  vain  for  the  gentle  flowers, 

That  blush  with  the  spring-time  gay  ; 
They  wait  till  soft  April's  dewy  showers 
Shall  waken  the  leaves,  and  the  woodland  bowers 
Are  decked  in  their  green  array. 


MARCH.  165 

The  birds  still  wander  in  southern  lands, 

Afar  from  the  clime  they  left ; 
And  the  streams  still  sleep  in  their  icy  bands, 
And  the  giant  oak  of  the  forest,  stands 

Of  his  emerald  robe  bereft. 

The  clouds  are  dark  on  thy  frowning  skies, 

Like  the  leaden  pall  of  night ; 
And  they  wave  like  massive  draperies, 
Till  a  flush  of  sunset's  crimson  dyes 

Hath  turned  them  to  banners  bright. 

Oh  !  why  should' st  thou  bear  the  name  of  Spring, 

Thou  month  of  cold  and  gloom  ? 
Her  gentle  treasures  thou  can'st  not  bring, 
For  in  greener  bowers  the  wild  birds  sing, 

And  the  flowers  forget  to  bloom. 

The  city  belle,  with  a  pensive  sigh, 

Deplores  thy  rigorous  sway  ; 
The  winter's  garb  she  would  fain  lay  by, 
And  robed  like  the  light-winged  butterfly, 

Come  forth  with  the  insects  gay. 


166  MARCH. 

And  the  cottage  girl  hath  her  'kerchief  blue, 

And  ribbon  of  pearly  white, 
And  she  looks  full  oft  at  their  spotless  hue, 
And  asks,  "  will  the  sunbeams  ne'er  peep  through, 

And  the  skies  again  look  bright?" 

Oh !  why  should' st  thou  bear  a  gentle  name, 

Thou  month  so  drear  and  chill  ? 
We  hear  thy  blast  through  the  forest  ring, 
And  ask  in  vain  for  the  meek-eyed  Spring, 

For  Winter  is  with  us  still. 


167 


THE   FROZEN   STREAM. 


Chained  with  strong  fetters,  fair  and  restless  stream, 
Thine  onward  course,  thou  rover,  harshly  stayed, 
No  more  by  mossy  bank  or  sylvan  glade, 

Goest  thou  rejoicing  —  and  the  solar  beam 

That  erst  threw  glittering  gems  upon  thy  breast, 
No  longer  owns  a  power  to  set  thee  free  : 

Fain  would  the  golden  rays  disturb  thy  rest, 
But  faint  and  trembling,  fail  to  succor  thee. 

A  mighty  arm  forbids  thy  further  flow, 

And  seals  with  icy  band  each  sparkling  wave  — 
Lays  bare  the  verdant  bank  thou  lov'st  to  lave, 

And  stills  thy  babbling  tongue  ;  nor  shalt  thou  know, 

Sweet  captive,  aught  of  liberty  again, 

Till  Spring,  with  gentle  hand,  unbinds  the  chilling  chain. 


168 


A   WHISPER    FROM    FAIRY  LAND. 


Alas  !  alas !  for  the  fairy  folk, 

Who,  under  the  boughs  of  the  elm  or  oak, 

Danced  in  the  moon-beams  till  morning  broke. 
They  made  their  homes  in  our  brightest  bowers, 

They  revelled  at  night  'neath  our  favourite  tree, 
They  slept  'mid  the  leaves  of  our  fairest  flowers, 

And  woke  the  still  air  with  their  fairy  glee : 
The  rose  was  the  throne  of  the  elfish  queen, 

With  a  royal  flush  of  crimson  dye ; 
And  her  couch  was  the  lily's  cup  I  ween, 

Where  she  slept  till  the  stars  came  out  on  high, 


A      WHISPER      F  R  O  M      F  AIRY      LA  X  1)  .  169 

And  one  reposed  on  the  violet's  lip, 

Where  the  earliest  dew-drops  all  sparkling  lay ; 
Oh  !  sweet  were  the  honied  gems  to  sip, 

As  a  nectar  draught  to  that  dancing  fay. 
Alas  !  alas  !  for  the  fairy  folk  — 
As  thus  I  sighed,  on  the  still  air  broke 
A  silvery  voice,  and  this  answer  spoke : 

"  Sad  indeed  the  fatal  hour 
Fairies  fled  from  earthly  bower, 
When  no  more  in  magic  ring, 
They  could  dance,  and  laugh,  and  sing, 
Tripping  through  each  haunted  grove, 
While  the  Moon  was  bright  above, 
And  amid  their  gentle  mirth, 
Flinging  fairy  gifts  o'er  earth. 

"First  they  threw  the  dew-drops  sweet, 
Where  the  vales  were  parched  with  heat ; 
And  the  cotter  woke  at  morn, 
Glad  to  find  the  springing  corn. 
Where  the  busy  wheel  was  still, 
There  they  led  the  laughing  rill ; 
22 


170  A    WHISPER    FROM    FAIRY    LAND. 

And  at  morning's  earliest  beam, 
Joyed  the  miller  o'er  the  stream, 
Deeming  'twas  the  summer  rain 
Thus  had  filled  his  pools  again. 
Where  the  tidy  housewife's  care, 
Would  the  early  meal  prepare  — 
Hands  unseen  at  midnight  drear, 
Spread  the  board  with  dainty  cheer, 
Woke  the  maids  at  peep  of  day, 
With  a  fairy  roundelay ; 
And  a  thousand  favors  then 
Lavishly  bestowed  on  men. 

"  Thus  we  lived  —  the  summer  day 
Wore  all  peacefully  away, 
As  we  slumbered  in  the  cell 
Of  the  fragrant  lily's  bell, 
'Till  the  purple  twilight  fell 
Soft  on  meadow,  grove,  and  dell, 
And  our  queen's  attendant  train, 
Called  us  to  our  tasks  again. 

"  All  the  balmy  summer  through, 
Thus  we  lived,  a  merry  crew, 


A     WHISPER     FROM      FAIRY     LAND.  171 

Gay  and  lightsome,  'till  a  foe, 
Came  to  work  us  fear  and  woe. 
Hideous  was  the  monster  grim, 
Strange  alike  in  face  and  limb  ;  • 
Wheresoe'er  he  chanced  to  roam, 
There  did  wonderous  changes  come. 
Hard  it  were  for  me  to  tell 
All  the  harm  which  then  befell, 
As  before  his  giant  sway 
Fled  the  frightened  elves  away. 
Soon  our  magic  ring  gave  place 
To  the  courser's  flying  race  ; 
Swiftly  through  the  land  there  came 
Steedless  chariots  urged  by  flame, 
Hissing  with  such  horrid  tone 
As  they  rushed  all  madly  on, 
That  the  fays  in  great  affright 
Feared  to  tempt  the  summer  night. 

"  Soon  the  groves  were  borne  to  earth, 
Once  resounding  with  our  mirth  ; 
Nature's  children,  faint  at  heart, 
Fled  before  the  steps  of  Art. 


172  A      WHISPER     FROM      FAIRY      LAND 

Where  the  mineral  waters  bright 
Sparkle  in  the  morning  light, 
Cure  for  every  fairy's  ill, 
Bathing  in  the  healing  rill, 
Whiskered  dandy,  perfumed  bel!e, 
Came  to  break  the  holy  spell : 
Once  by  mortal  taste  defiled, 
Lost  the  charm  for  elfland  child  ; 
And  where  bright  those  waters  play, 
Never  more  their  steps  may  stray. 

"  Sad  the  change  —  ungrateful  man, 
Then  to  doubt  our  power  began  ; 
Wickedly  proclaimed,  that  we 
Lived  alone  in  phantasie ; 
Scorned  our  gifts  with  skeptic  word, 
Left  our  warnings  all  unheard, 
And  with  impious  jeer  and  jest, 
Other  sway  than  our's  confessed. 

"  What  then  could  the  fairies  do  ? 
Far  away  from  earth  we  flew, 
At  our  gracious  queen's  command, 
Back  again  to  fairy  land  : 


A    WHISPER    PROM    FAIRY    LAND.  173 

Nor  shall  mortal  ever  see 

Aught  of  elfish  revelry. 

Changed  is  now  each  haunted  spot, 

And  the  elves  are  half  forgot, 

Only  sung  in  legends  wild, 

To  the  gay  and  wondering  child  ; 

Or  remembered,  it  may  be, 

Lady  fair,  by  such  as  thee." 


174 


EARLY   DAYS. 


Do  you  remember,  Mary, 

All  our  happy  childish  days  ? 
When  our  hearts  were  light  and  airy, 

And  with  footsteps  like  a  fays 
We  bounded  o'er  the  meadow, 

Or  adown  the  wooded  lane, 
And  plucked  each  summer  blossom, 

And  mocked  the  wild  bird's  strain  ? 
When  in  that  old  fashioned  garden 

We  built  our  grotto  fair, 
With  the  shells  that  were  so  lovely, 

We  were  loth  to  leave  them  there  ?  - 


EARLY     DAYS.  175 


When  we  planted  by  the  willow 

The  hyacinth  so  blue, 
And  early  left  our  pillow 

To  watch  how  fast  it  grew  ? 
Do  you  remember,  Mary, 

Those  happy,  happy  days  ; 
When  our  hearts  were  light  and  airy, 

And  our  footsteps  like  a  fays  ? 


Do  you  remember  ever 

Our  happy  girlhood  hours, 
When  we  wandered  by  the  river, 

Or  amid  the  forest  bowers  ? 
When  we  had  so  many  secrets 

That  were  never  to  be  told, 
And  we  thought  them  quite  as  weighty 

As  a  miser's  bag  of  gold  ? 
When  we  conned  our  lessons  over 

By  the  old  laburnum  tree, 
With  sweet  summer  sounds  to  lure  us 

In  the  voice  of  bird  and  bee  ? 


176 


EARLY      U A \ 


And  our  games  upon  the  hill-side, 

On  the  green,  or  by  the  swing, 
With  Antoinette  and  Amy, 

Who  were  foremost  in  the  ring  ? 
Or  our  quarrel  in  the  greenwood, 

Underneath  the  spreading  vine, 
Because  a  school-boy  lover 

Preferred  your  eyes  to  mine  ? — 
Do  you  remember,  Mary, 

All  those  happy  girlhood  hours, 
When  our  hearts  were  light  and  airy, 

And  we  trod  a  path  of  flowers  ?  — 
A  path  of  thornless  flowers, 

Beneath  a  smiling  sky, 
Nor  dreamed  in  such  fair  bowers 

That  care  could  ever  lie. 


And  I  hope  you've  not  forgotten 
Our  first  and  famous  ball, 

When  we  tripped  it  gay  and  lightly 
Through  that  antiquated  hall  ; 


EARLY     DAYS.  177 

When  our  mothers  sat  beside  us, 

With  a  mother's  partial  eye, 
And  thought  their  girls  the  fairest, 

Though  a  thousand  sylphs  were  by ; 
And  we  deemed  that  scene  of  pleasure, 

Was  just  what  life  would  be,  — 
We  have  learned  a  harsher  measure, 

And  turned  to  grief  from  glee. 
We  have  known  the  heart's  deep  sorrow, 

Since  those  happy  days  were  past ; 
We  have  seen  each  coming  morrow 

Look  darker  than  the  last ; 
We  have  wept  in  bitter  anguish, 

And  felt  how  sharp  the  sting, 
When  some  fair,  but  fragile  blossom, 

In  our  arms  lay  withering: 
But  we've  garnered  hopes  immortal, 

That  we  knew  not  of  before, 
And  yet  have  hours  of  gladness, 

Though  our  girlhood  days  are  o'er. 


23 


178 


THANKS   FOR   A  BOQUET, 


TO    3.    R. 


Thanks  for  thy  gift,  my  gentle  friend, 

Thy  lovely  gift  of  blushing  flowers  ; 
Methinks  a  voice  amid  them,  tells 

Of  smiling  skies,  and  sunny  hours  ; 
Thy  treasured  offering's  sweet  perfume, 

Bears  me  in  fancy  far  away 
To  gardens  redolent  of  bloom, 

And  all  the  charms  of  summer  day : 
The  zephyr  breaths  to  fan  my  brow, 
That  come  but  with  my  fancy  now. 


THANKS      FOR      A     BOQUET.  179 

But  not  alone  of  smiling  skies, 

Or  zephyr's  fragrant  breath  they  tell ; 
A  tone  they  have,  which  more  I  prize 

Than  painted  leaf,  or  perfumed  belle  ; 
They  whisper  me,  these  blushing  flowers, 

That  Friendship  culled  the  fresh  boquet, 
To  cheer  the  sick  one's  languid  hours, 

And  cheat  the  weary  time  away. 
They  whisper,  kindness,  sympathy, 
Have  yet  a  home,  dear  friend,  with  thee. 

Ah !  well  I  love  their  pleasant  tones, 

Perchance  unheard  by  other  ears  ; 
But  to  my  listening  heart  they  speak, 

My  heart  their  silent  language  hears. 
Then  let  me  thank  thee  for  thy  gift, 

Thy  blooming  gift  of  fragrant  flowers  ; 
They  come  like  angel  visitants, 

To  cheer  my  sick  one's  languid  hours, 
And  on  each  leaf  can  fancy  frame 
The  letters  of  thy  gentle  name. 


180 


THE   FIRST  SNOW. 


Thy  mantle  white  is  on  the  senseless  earth, 

Spirit  of  Winter  —  old  Eolus  rude 

Pipes  from  his  northern  home  in  fiercest  mood  ; 
And  o'er  the  crisped  wreaths,  with  shouts  of  mirth, 
And  chiming  bells,  and  laughter  ringing  free, 

Glides  the  swift  sleigh  ;  while  merry  urchins  play, 
Tossing  the  frozen  balls  in  heart-felt  glee, 

Or  forming  uncouth  shapes  of  monsters  grim, 
To  melt  like  youthful  hopes,  when  next  the  ray 

Of  noontide  streams  on  each  misshapen  limb. 
The  naked  branches  wear  a  spotless  vest  — 

While  through  the  window  infant  faces  peep, 

Lured  from  their  downy  beds  and  early  sleep, 
Wondering  to  mark  the  earth  in  wintry  garments  drest. 


181 


TO 


We  learned  to  love  in  life's  gay  spring, 
When  radiant  sunshine  lit  our  way ; 

When  Hope,  like  bird  upon  the  wing, 
Soared  up,  and  on,  throughout  the  day ; 

When  earth  was  bright  as  earth  could  be, 

And  nought  might  dim  our  constancy. 


And  now  life's  fragrant  summer-time 
Upon  our  path  its  light  hath  poured  ; 

But  Hope  forgets  her  airy  clime, 

Nor  soars  so  high  as  once  she  soared  : 

Yet  beat  our  hearts,  as  warm,  as  true, 

As  when  the  merry  springtide  flew. 


182  TO  

But  shall  we  love  when  falling  leaves 
The  autumn  of  our  lives  disclose  ? 

When  Time  his  silver  frost-work  weaves, 
O'er  tress  of  gold,  and  cheek  of  rose  ? 

When  eyes  grow  dim,  and  sadly  say, 

How  all  things  fair  must  pass  away  ? 


Shall  we  love  on  through  wintry  hours, 
Our  pleasant  journey  nearly  done  ? 

When  failing  limbs,  and  weakened  powers, 
Proclaim  how  near  our  set  of  sun  ? 

When  youth's  gay  visions  all  are  o'er, 

And  come  to  light  our  steps  no  more  ? 


Oh  !  doubt  it  not  —  Time  cannot  chill 
The  passion  of  our  youthful  hearts,  — 

A  holy  flame,  'twill  brighten  still, 
Its  living  radiance  ne'er  departs  ; 

I  feel,  I  know,  its  power  must  last 

'Till  even  life  itself  be  past. 


TO  183 

Oh!  doubt  it  not — like  some  fair  tide 

That  sparkles  in  the  morning  light, 
Yet  keeps  its  course,  as  deep,  as  wide, 

Though  dark  may  prove  the  coming  night,  — 
So  shall  the  love  that  blest  our  prime, 
Flow  on,  through  every  change  of  time. 


184 


TO    THE   MOON. 


Fair  mistress  Moon,  that  up  on  high 

With  many  a  brilliant  star, 
Goes  sailing  through  the  midnight  sky  — 

Pray  tell  me  what  you  are  ? 
I  long  to  have  a  nearer  view, 
To  scan  thy  beauties  through  and  through. 


I  see  a  face  in  thee,  sweet  Moon,  — 

Art  thou  a  curious  elf, 
Who  look'st  to  find  upon  our  earth 

Some  fair  one  like  thyself? 
Or  hast  thou  but  a  wish  to  see 
What  passes  in  society  ? 


TO    THE    MOON.  18/5 


And  prithee,  lady  pure  and  bright, 
What  doth  thy  piercing  eye 

Discover,  by  the  witching  light 
Thy  gentle  beams  supply  ? 

Pray  tell  me,  mild  and  beauteous  one, 

What  hath  it  ever  gazed  upon  ? 


No  answer  ?  — art  thou  speechless  then  ? 

Upon  this  earth  thou'lt  find, 
Fair  lady  Moon,  that  silence  is 

No  fault  of  woman-kind  : 
We've  tongues,  and  we  can  use  them  too, 
As  I  shall  plainly  prove  to  you. 


Strange  thoughts  come  o'er  me  when  I  think 

Of  all  thou'st  witnessed  here  ; 
The  thousand,  thousand  years  thou'st  rolled, 

Unwearied  in  thy  sphere  ; 
Surely  ihou  art  a  wonderous  creature, 
Not  to  grow  old  in  form  or  feature. 
24 


186  TO     T  H  E    M  O  O  N  . 

Thou  wer'st  the  same  soft  silvery  hue, 
When  first  thy  beams  were  given 

To  bless  a  sinless  world,  and  night 
Curtained  the  new-made  heaven  ; 

When  mother  Eve  looked  up  and  praised 

Thy  light  to  Adam  as  she  gazed. 


And  since  that  time,  what  mighty  change 
Thy  watching  eye  hath  seen  ; 

And  yet,  thou'rt  ever  moving  on 
With  the  same  quiet  mien. 

Does  not  thy  knowledge  turn  thy  brain  ? 

'Tis  sometimes  so,  when  wit  we  gain. 


And  thou  art  worshipped  here  by  all  — 

All  hail  thee  with  delight ; 
And  who,  for  half  the  glare  of  day, 

Would  give  thy  blessed  light  ? 
Nature  looks  fairer,  and  thy  sway 
Old  ocean  owns,  the  wise  ones  say. 


TO    THE    MOON. 


The  lover,  when  thine  orb  is  full, 
In  many  a  lady's  bower, 

Will  tell  a  tale  in  burning  words, 
Of  Love's  subduing  power  ; 

And  swear  by  thy  soft  beams,  to  be 

A  pattern  of  fidelity. 


And  many  a  poet  like  myself, 
Will  woo  thee  in  his  song, 

And  sing  perhaps  more  pleasantly, 
Nor  keep  thee  half  so  long  : 

But  lady  Moon  —  so  mild  and  dear, 

I  have  a  secret  for  thine  ear. 


Don't  whisper  it  to  idle  airs, 
Lest  they  should  waft  it  on  ; 

But,  there  is  somebody  I  love, 
From  thy  poor  votary  gone  : 

I'm  sure  that  if  he  gaze  on  thee, 

His  thought  is  fixed  the  while,  on  me. 


188  TO    THE    MOON. 

He's  gone  across  the  deep  blue  sea 
For  months,  perhaps  for  years  ; 

I  try  to  smile,  but  often,  Moon, 
I  cannot  hide  my  tears  : 

We  loved  as  playmates  —  was  it  strange 

Time  our  affection  could  not  change  ? 


And  when  he  asked  my  beating  heart, 

In  tones  so  sweet  and  low, 
And  told  me,  we  so  soon  must  part, 

I  could  not  answer  "  No." 
Did'st  mark  the  hour?  —  I  know  thine  eye 
Was  peeping  from  thy  home  on  high. 


And  can'st  thou,  on  thy  silver  beams, 

Kind  messages  convey  ? 
Then  tell  him  I  am  all  his  own, 

Although  so  far  away ; 
And  say,  beneath  thy  gentle  light, 
My  dreams  will  be  of  him  to-night. 


189 


THE    MAIDEN    TO    HER    MIRROR. 


Thou  tellest  a  pleasant  tale  to  me  — 

Thou  sayest  my  form  is  fair, 
And  over  a  brow  of  spotless  white 

Is  braided  my  silken  hair  :  — 
That  mine  eye  is  bright,  as  the  stars  that  lie 

Far  off  in  their  depths  of  blue  ; 
That  my  cheek  hath  stolen  the  rose's  dye, 

And  my  lip  the  ruby's  hue. 


190  THE    MAIDEN    TO    HER    MIRROR. 

And  thou  wert  the  first,  long  years  ago, 

In  my  childhood's  laughing  hour, 
To  whisper  a  thought  of  beauty  bright, 

Though  I  guessed  not  of  its  power  : 
But  one  hath  knelt  at  that  beauty's  shrine. 

And  proffered  a  noble  heart ; 
And  the  word  is  spoken  in  holy  faith, 

From  which  we  may  never  part. 


And  to-morrow  —  then  kind  hands  will  deck 

My  form  for  the  altar's  side ; 
And  with  murmured  wishes  of  health  and  joy, 

They  will  hail  me,  a  happy  bride. 
Wilt  thou  give  me  back  as  bright  a  cheek 

As  leans  to  thy  surface  now  ? 
Will  thy  shining  bosom,  old  mirror,  speak 

Of  a  pale  but  lovely  brow? 

Wilt  thou  say  beneath  my  bridal  veil, 
Half  hid  by  their  swelling  tears, 

Mine  eyes  beam  forth  with  the  liquid  light 
Of  my  girlhood's  happy  years  ? 


THE    MAIDEN    TO    HER    MIRROR.  191 

It  will  be  our  parting,  oh,  mirror  bright ! 

Our  last  fond  parting  then  ; 
And  as  years  ?oll  o'er  us,  it  yet  may  be 

We  shall  never  meet  again. 

For  my  home,  it  must  now  be  far  away 

O'er  the  waves  of  the  bright  blue  sea  ; 
But  oh !  will  the  vales  of  that  verdant  land 

E'er  seem  as  my  own  to  me  ? 
The  love  of  a  trusting  heart  I  know 

Can  make  each  spot  seem  fair  ; 
But  shall  I  not  sigh  for  the  loving  smiles, 

And  the  sweet  home-voices  there  ? 

My  mother's  eye,  will  it  come  to  bless 

Her  child  with  its  tender  gleams  ? 
Shall  I  yearn  for  my  sister's  gentle  words, 

Yet  hear  them  alone  in  dreams  ? 
Shall  my  father's  blessing,  my  brother's  tone, 

No  longer  greet  mine  ear  ? 
And  is  love  so  deep  in  my  heart  for  him, 

I  can  part  with  the  loved  ones  here  ? 


192  THE    MAIDEN    TO    HER    MIRROR. 

Yet  oft  will  they  come  to  my  chamber  lone, 

And  gaze  on  thy  glossy  face ; 
Would  I  might  stamp  upon  thee,  old  friend, 

The  features  they  love  to  trace  : 
But  not  forgotten,  though  all  unseen, 

Will  the  parted  dear  one  be ; 
I  shall  dwell  in  faithful  hearts,  I  ween, 

Oh  mirror !  if  not  in  thee. 


193 


CONSTANCY. 


It  is  like  love — Oh  !  love  should  be 

An  ever  changing  thing  : 
The  love  that  /could  worship,  must 

Be  ever  on  the  wing. 

L.  E.  1,- 


Not  so  for  me  —  I  could  not  brook 

A  love  that  changed  with  every  wind  : 
A  colder  tone,  a  calmer  look, 

A  passion  less  refined ; 
Though  deep  might  flow  the  blessed  tide, 
I  would  not  that  its  waves  aside 
Should  turn  a  moment,  though  I  knew 
Again  they'd  seek  the  channel  true. 
25 


194  CONSTANCY. 

I  could  not  bear  an  altered  eye, 
I  could  not  list  a  careless  lay  — 

A  thoughtless  tone,  whose  vague  reply 
Told  the  heart  far  away : 

I  would  not  other  lips  should  praise,  — 

I  would  not  other  eyes  should  gaze,  — 

If  one,  and  only  one  alone, 

Felt  the  deep  love  that  matched  my  own. 


I  would  be  prized  all  else  above, 
Valued  as  some  peculiar  star ; 

Worshipped,  as  if  no  other  gem 
Lit  the  blue  arch  afar. 

Mine,  the  heart's  deep  devotion  be, 

Unchanging,  half  idolatry  ; 

The  polar  beam,  whose  light  divine 

Nor  sets,  nor  fades,  —  such  love  be  mine, 


1839. 


195 


TO    ANNIE. 


VALENTINE. 


Chilled  by  winter's  frosts  and  snows, 
Where  hath  fled  the  summer  rose  ? 
Hath  it  lost  its  flush  of  pride  ? 
Are  its  red  leaves  scattered  wide  ? 
No  —  its  beauties  would  you  seek, 
Lo,  they  bloom  on  Annie's  cheek. 


196  TO    ANNIE. 

What  hath  hid  the  gentle  star 

In  its  azure  home  afar? 

Have  the  clouds  with  envious  blight, 

Curtained  all  its  pearly  light  ? 

Look  not  for  the  star  on  high  — 

See,  it  beams  in  Annie's  eye. 

Summer  sunbeams,  where  are  ye  ? 
Bring  once  more  your  joys  to  me  : 
Must  we  sigh,  alas  !  in  vain, 
For  your  ardent  glance  again  ? 
Ask  not  summer  suns  the  while, 

If  ye  bask  in  Annie's  smile. 

» 

Who  so  true,  so  fair  as  she  ? 
Whom  adored  so  faithfully  ? 
Airy  shape,  and  faultless  feature, 
Rivaling  every  mortal  creature — 
Tell  me,  what  can  most  beguile  ? 
Annie's  cheek,  and  eye,  and  smile. 


197 


WINTER. 


"  I  deem  thee  not  unlovely,  though  thou  com'st 
With  a  stern  visage." 

MBS.  SIGOURNKV. 


I  love  thee,  Winter,  though  thy  name 

Comes  harshly  on  the  ear, 
And  foes  have  called  thy  frosty  face 

The  saddest  of  the  year: 
They  say  thy  tears  in  hailstones  fall  — 
That  bitter  blasts  are  in  thy  call  — 
That  all  things  shudder,  when  thy  cry 
In  the  wild  tempest  rushes  by. 


198  WINTER. 

Well,  though  thy  face  may  wear  a  frown, 

It  is  not  always  so  ; 

And  though  thou  send'st  in  plenty  down, 
On  barren  heath  or  peopled  town, 

The  pale  unsullied  snow  — 
Full  many  a  pleasure  does  it  bring, 
Upon  its  silent  flakey  wing  : 
The  merry  hills  ring  out  amain, 
When  it  lies  thick  on  hill  and  plain. 

Thou  fling' st  thy  jewels  on  the  bough 

Of  every  naked  tree, 
And  hang'st  thy  pendant  diamonds,  where 

The  poorest  hind  may  see  ; 
And  oft  thou  giv'st  us  skies  as  fair 
As  gentle  Spring  is  wont  to  wear ; 
While  pleasantly  the  soft  winds  play 
Through  all  the  clear  and  balmy  day. 

The  Christmas  faggot  blazing  high  — 
The  games  of  wonderous  skill  — 

And  oft  the  dismal  legend  told, 

Of  nightly  ghost  or  robber  bold, 
To  make  young  bosoms  thrill ;  — 


WINTER.  199 

The  gambols  in  the  new  falPn  snow  — 
The  white  balls  tossing  to  and  fro,  — 
These  prove  thouhast  some  joys  to  bless, 
Though  thou  art  famed  for  dreariness. 

Then  let  the  roses  cease  to  bloom 

Beside  my  cottage  door ; 
And  wild  birds  seek  a  greener  home 

Upon  some  distant  shore ;  — 
The  rose  of  love  still  blooms  for  me, 
With  all  its  wonted  fragrancy  ; 
And  fond  affection  hath  a  tone, 
The  greenwood  songsters  ne'er  have  known. 

The  summer's  flush,  its  glowing  breath, 

Its  breezes,  fruits,  and  flowers, 
Have  charms  for  all  —  but  still  I  prize 

The  dark  and  wintry  hours  : 
Storms  may  be  thine,  and  cold,  and  snow, 
And  keen  the  whist'ling  winds  may  blow ; 
And  yet,  though  wanting  many  a  grace, 
Winter,  I  love  thy  rugged  face. 


200 


THE    LOVE    LETTER 


SUGGESTED    BY    A    PICTURE. 


Lady,  in  thy  summer  bower, 
Sure,  enchantment  rules  the  hour ! 
All  around  thee  seems  so  bright 
With  the  sunbeam's  mellowed  light, 
Through  the  twisted  branches  streaming 
On  each  leaf  and  floweret  gleaming  — 
Resting  on  thy  dark  brown  hair, 
In  a  crown  a  queen  might  wear  ; 
And  a  robe  of  golden  light 
Flinging  o'er  thy  shoulder  white. 


THE      LOVE      L  E  T  T  K  R  . 

Pleasant  breezes  fan  thy  cheek, 
Blushing  flowers  thy  care  bespeak; 
Birds  upon  the  branching  tree 
Warble  forth  their  melody  ; 
And  the  hum-bird  glances  by, 
With  the  gauze-winged  butterfly, 
Tossing  in  the  summer  air, 
As  bright  gems  were  floating  there. 
All  is  lovely,  fair,  and  free  — 
Nature's  banquet  spread  for  thee. 

Vain  each  charm  that  haunts  thy  bower 
They  have  lost  their  wonted  power  ; 
Flowers  may  blossom,  birds  may  sing, 
Zephyrs  roam  on  fragrant  wing, 
Insects  hum,  and  sunbeams  fall, 
Thou  art  heedless  of  them  all. 
What  to  thee  the  azure  sky  ? 
What  the  song-bird's  minstrelsy  ? 
What  the  flush  of  summer  day  ? 
Thou,  in  thought,  art  far  away, 
Roving  with  thy  distant  lover, 

Other  climes  and  countries  over. 
26 


202  THE      LOVE     LETTER. 

On  the  written  page  thine  eye 
Resteth  now  most  earnestly, 
As  its  burning  words  reveal 
Love,  nor  time  nor  change  rnay  steal 
Love  in  every  line  confessed ; 
Gentle  maiden  thou  art  blessed  ! 
Bird,  and  flower,  and  sunny  gleam, 
'  Cannot  lure  thee  from  thy  dream. 


203 


A    SIGH    FOR    THE    PAST. 


"Alas !  for  the  sordid  propensities  of  modern  days,  when  everything  is  coined  into  gold,  and 
this  once  holiday  planet  of  ours,  is  turned  into  a  mere  working-day  world." 

WASHINGTON  IKVING. 


Oh !  for  the  days  of  chivalry, 
For  a  knight  of  heroic  deed, 

With  a  glittering  helmet  on  his  head, 
And  a  fiery,  prancing  steed. 

I'm  tired  of  beaux  with  beaver  hats, 

And  coats  of  black  or  blue  — 

i 

Oh  !  for  the  days  of  old  romance, 
And  their  mail-clad  heroes  too. 


204  A      SIGH      FOR     THE      PAST. 

It  must  have  been  a  pleasant  thing 

To  dwell  in  a  castle  high, 
With  a  draw-bridge  o'er  a  deep  dark  moat, 

And  turrets  against  the  sky  ; 
To  have  a  warder  on  the  wall, 

And  a  banner  waving  free, 
And  a  lover  who  came  from  the  Holy-land, 

And  wooed  upon  bended  knee. 

I  wish  I  had  lived  in  those  glorious  days, 

Some  centuries  ago, 
With  good  broad  lands  and  plenty  of  gold, 

And  a  will  of  my  own,  I  trow  ; 
A  tapestried  chamber  with  secret  doors, 

And  galleries  lone  and  long ; 
Such  as  I've  read  of  a  thousand  times, 

In  volumes  of  tale  and  song. 

I'd  have  braided  the  locks  of  my  raven  hair, 
And  woven  each  shining  tress 

With  the  richest  gems  of  the  earth  and  sea, 
To  add  to  my  loveliness. 


A      SIGH      FOR      THE      PAST.  205 

And  over  embroidery  rich  and  rare, 
Have  bent  through  the  livelong  day, 

And  a  little  maiden  at  my  feet, 
With  a  lute  and  a  pleasant  lay. 

And  I  would  have  graced  the  tournament 

Where  knights  were  in  the  list, 
Or  swept  along  with  a  merry  train, 

And  a  falcon  on  my  wrist : 
I'd  have  had  a  milk-white  palfrey  too, 

And  a  page  in  green  and  gold ; 
And  tales  of  love  should  have  lulled  mine  ear, 

By  a  wandering  harper  told. 

I'm  weary  of  all  the  things  I  see, 

Of  steeples  and  chimnies  high  ; 
Of  houses  standing  in  long  straight  rows, 

With  carriages  rolling  by  ; 
I  hate  a  modern  residence, 

Fine  sofas  and  Brusseled  floors, 
And  a  chandelier  from  the  ceiling  hung, 

Or  a  mansion  with  folding  doors. 


206  A      SIGH      FOR     THE      PAST. 

And  I  must  dress  quite  a-la-mode, 

From  bonnet  to  silken  hose, 
And  follow  the  fashions  of  foolish  France, 

For  a  reason  nobody  knows  : 
I  have  to  walk  with  outrageous  men, 

Who  I'm  sure  I  could  never  love, 
With  monstrous  whiskers,  and  little  canes, 

And  hand  in  a  hosskin  glove. 

Oh !  for  the  golden  days  gone  by, 

The  days  of  old  romance, 
When  there  were  knights  in  armor  clad, 

With  shield,  and  spear,  and  lance  ; 
When  to  noble  dames  and  ladies  fair, 

They  bent  the  willing  knee  :  — 
Would  I  had  lived  in  those  glorious  times, 

For  they  were  the  days  for  me  ! 


207 


SERENADE. 


List  while  I  sing  to  thee, 

Fairest  and  best ; 
Chase  thy  sweet  slumbers, 

Awake  from  thy  rest  — 
Hear  the  soft  melodies 

Floating  afar, 
Breathed  from  the  strings 

Of  my  tuneful  guitar. 


208  SERENADE. 

Steal  from  thy  pillow, 

The  casement  unclose  ; 
Lift  the  light  curtain 

That  veils  thy  repose  — 
Softly  the  moonbeam 

Its  mantle  will  throw, 
O'er  thy  fair  tresses 

And  ivory  brow. 

Part  but  one  bud 

From  the  jessamine  spray j 
Press  to  thy  bosom, 

Then  toss  it  away  — 
Swift  through  the  lattice 

Kind  zephyr  will  bring 
Love's  fairy  token, 

To  bless  while  I  sing. 


M191971 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


